THE  WILLING  HORSE 


THE  WILLING  HORSE 

A  Novel 


BY 


IAN  HAY,  f- 


) 

AUTHOR  OF  "  A  MAN*8  MAN,"  "  A  SAFETY  MATCH,"  "  THE  RIGHT  STUFF ' 
"  THE  FIRST  HUNDRED  THOUSAND,"  ETC. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

«&e  Ri\JersiDe  prtjrf  CambtiDge 
1021 


COPYRIGHT,  Ipal,  BY  IAN  HAY  B«I 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO 

H.  M.  B. 


2136S21    • 


TO  THE  READER 

ONE  is  informed  that  novels  touching  upon  the 
war  are  no  longer  read.  This,  if  true,  reduces  the 
novelist  to  the  following  alternatives : 

(1)  Writing  a  novel  of  some  period  of  the 
world's  history  antecedent  to  the  year  nineteen- 
fourteen.    This  is  undoubtedly  a  wide  field — the 
Christian  era  alone  covers  twenty  centuries — but 
it  has  been  cultivated  by  several  writers  already. 

( 2 )  Writing  a  post-war  novel  in  which  it  is  as- 
sumed that  the  war  never  happened.    This  would 
make  it  rather  difficult  to  know  what  to  do  with 
the  graves  of  our  dead. 

(3)  Writing  a  post-war  novel  about  people 
who  took  no  part  in  the  war.    This  would  restrict 
one's  choice  of  hero,  heroine,  and  characters  gen- 
erally to  Certified  Lunatics,  Convicts  in  residence, 
and  Conscientious  Objectors. 

I  have  therefore  decided  to  take  a  chance.  The 
tale  which  follows  is  based: 

(a)  Upon  a  frank  admission  that  there  has 
been  a  war. 

(6)  Upon  a  humble  belief  that  the  people 
chiefly  worth  writing  about  in  these  days  are  those 
who  gave  body,  soul  —  everything — to  win  that 
war. 

That  explains  my  choice  of  title. 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  VALLEYS  STAND  so  THICK  WITH  CORN      1 

II.  REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  27 

III.  DER  TAG  51 

IV.  A  TRYST  70 
V.  THE  INEVITABLE  88 

VI.  SOLO  105 

VII.  DUET  124 

VIII.  CHORUS  148 

IX.  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS  179 

X.  DISCIPLINE  !  DISCIPLINE  !  DISCIPLINE!  201 

XI.  ENFIN!  209 

XII.  TOM  BIRNIE  224 

Xni.  ALBERT  CLEGG  236 

XIV.  Two  SPARROWS  246 

XV.  THE  EXPLORER  264 

XVI.  THE  GREAT  PRETEND  272 

XVH.  THE  UNDEFEATED  292 

XVIII.  THE  OLD  ORDER  303 

XIX.  THE  LAST  THROW  817 

XX.  FOUNTAIN  KEEP  838 

XXI.  IDENTITIES  847 

XXH.  THE  MILLS  OF  GOD  360 

XXIII.  THE  SOUL  OF  ERIC  BETHUNE  372 

XXIV.  THROUGH  380 


THE  WILLING  HORSE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   VALLEYS   STAND    SO    THICK   WITH    COBN 


A  SUNDAY  at  Baronrigg  is  a  chastening  experi- 
ence. It  is  not  exactly  a  day  of  wrath — though 
one  feels  that  it  might  easily  become  one  —  but  it 
is  a  time  of  tribulation  for  people  who  do  not  want 
to  go  to  church  —  or,  if  the  worst  happens,  prefer 
their  religious  exercises  to  be  brief  and  dilute. 

But  neither  brevity  nor  dilution  makes  any 
appeal  to  my  friend  Tom  Birnie. 

"  I  am  a  member,"  he  announces,  as  soon  as  a 
quorum  has  assembled  at  Sunday  breakfast,  "  of 
the  old  Kirk  of  Scotland  ;  and  I  propose  to 
attend  service  at  Doctor  Chirnside's  at  eleven 
o'clock.  If  any  of  you  would  care  " —  he  addresses 
a  suddenly  presented  perspective  of  immaculate 
partings,  bald  spots  and  permanent  waves  —  "  to 
accompany  me,  a  conveyance  will  leave  here  at 
ten-forty." 

"  Well,  we  can't  all  get  in,  that's  plain,"  chirps 


2  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Miss  Joan  Dexter  hopefully.  (The  table  is  laid 
for  fourteen.) 

"The  conveyance,"  continues  the  inexorable 
Tom,  "holds  twelve  inside  and  four  out,  not 
counting  the  coachman." 

"  It's  no  good,  Joan,  old  fruit,"  observes  Master 
Roy  Birnie.  "  We  keep  a  pantechnicon  ! " 

"I  suppose  there's  not  a  Church  of  England 
service  within  reach  ? "  asks  little  Mrs.  Pomeroy, 
rather  ingeniously.  "  One's  own  Church  makes 
an  appeal  to  one  which  no  other  denomination 
cannot — can  —  adequately  —  doesn't  it  ? "  she 
concludes,  a  little  uncertain  both  of  her  syntax 
and  her  host.  This  is  her  first  visit  to  Baronrigg. 

"  Now  she's  done  for  herself! "  whispers  Master 
Roy  into  my  left  ear. 

"I  agree  with  you.  There  is  an  Episcopal 
Church — Scottish  Episcopal,  of  course  —  at 
Fiddrie,  three  miles  from  here.  I  shall  be  happy 
to  send  you  over  there  this  evening  at  half -past 
six.  This  morning,  I  know,  you  will  put  up  with 
our  barbaric  Northern  rites  ! "  replies  Tom,  with 
what  he  imagines  to  be  an  indulgent  smile.  "  I 
like  to  see  the  Baronrigg  pew  full." 

And  full  it  is. 

The  longer  I  know  Tom  Birnie,  the  more  I 
marvel  that  Diana  Carrick  married  him.  That 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN        3 

sentiment  is  shared  by  a  good  many  people,  but 
on  more  abstract  grounds  than  mine.  Tom  is 
a  just  and  considerate  landlord,  an  adequate 
sportsman,  and  a  good  specimen  of  that  class 
by  whose  voluntary  service  this  country  gets  most 
of  its  local  government  done,  admirably,  for  noth- 
ing. But  there  are  certain  things  against  Tom. 

In  the  first  place — to  quote  old  Lady  Chris- 
tina Bethune,  of  Buckholm  —  "  no  one  knows  who 
the  creature  is,  or  where  he  came  from."  This 
implies  nothing  worse  than  that  since  Tom  repre- 
sents the  first  generation  of  Birnies  born  in  this 
county,  his  forbears  must  have  been  born  some- 
where else.  In  other  words  —  still  quoting  the 
same  distinguished  authority  —  "they  never  ex- 
isted at  all."  As  a  matter  of  fact  and  common 
knowledge,  Tom's  grandfather  was  a  minister  of 
the  Kirk,  somewhere  in  Perthshire,  and  his  father 
an  enormously  successful  member  of  the  Scottish 
Bar,  who  bought  the  derelict  little  estate  of  Stra- 
wick,  hard  by  here,  and  settled  there  in  the  late 
sixties  with  the  presumptuous,  but,  I  think,  ex- 
cusable, intention  of  founding  a  family.  Natur- 
ally a  family  which  has  resided  in  our  county  for 
only  forty-seven  years  can  hardly  be  expected  to 
have  drifted,  as  yet,  within  the  range  of  Lady 
Christina's  lorgnette. 


4  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Secondly,  Tom  is  a  Radical.  We  are  broad- 
minded  people  in  this  county,  and  are  quite 
indulgent  to  persons  who  disapprove  of  the  lease- 
hold system  (which  does  not  obtain  in  Scotland) , 
or  who  make  excuses  for  the  late  Mr.  Gladstone, 
or  who  are  inclined  to  criticise  pheasant  preserv- 
ing. That  is  the  kind  of  Radicalism  which  we 
understand,  and  are  prepared  to  tolerate.  That 
was  the  sort  of  person  Tom's  father  was.  That 
is  how  Tom  began.  But  of  late,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, Tom  has  been  going  it.  He  supports  the 
present  Government ;  he  is  for  reducing  the 
Army  and  Navy  ;  he  has  recently  helped  to 
abolish  our  Second  Chamber.  (That  was  no 
great  calamity  ;  but  he  and  his  friends  have 
omitted  to  provide  us  with  a  substitute. )  He  has 
openly  applauded  the  efforts  of  a  person  named 
George  to  break  up  the  foundations  of  our  well- 
tried  Social  System  ;  while  the  courses  which  he 
advocates  with  regard  to  the  taxation  of  Land 
Values  and  the  treatment  of  loyal  Ulster,  surpass 
belief.  That  is  what  the  county  has  against 
Tom. 

But  I  am  neither  a  laird  nor  a  farmer,  and  my 
indictment  against  Tom  is  based  on  more  personal 
and  less  venial  grounds.  Firstly,  he  is  not  human. 
He  is  a  calculating  machine,  with  about  as  much 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN        5 

passion  as  a  parish  pump.  Secondly,  he  is  abso- 
lutely destitute  of  all  sense  of  humour.  And  yet 
Diana  married  him  !  Her  own  beautiful  person 
exhaled  humanity  and  humour  in  equal  propor- 
tions. In  all  her  short  life  I  never  knew  her  fail 
to  understand  a  fellow-creature,  or  miss  a  hu- 
morous situation.  Yet  she  married  Tom  Birnie. 
She  married  Tom  Birnie,  and  she  broke  off  her 
engagement  with  Eric  Bethune  to  do  it.  I  am  a 
humble-minded  person,  and  I  never  professed  to 
understand  any  woman — not  even  my  own  wife, 
Diana's  sister  —  but  I  wonder,  even  now,  how  any 
girl  could  have  resisted  Eric  Bethune  as  he  was 
twenty  years  ago,  or,  having  got  him,  have  re- 
linquished him  in  favour  of  Tom  Birnie.  There 
was  something  pretty  big  and  tragic  behind  that 
broken-off  engagement.  My  Eve  knew  what  it 
was  —  I  suppose  Diana  told  her  about  it — but 
when  I  asked  for  the  explanation  I  was  tersely 
instructed  not  to  be  an  inquisitive  old  busybody. 
As  for  Eric,  he  never  mentioned  the  matter  to 
me.  He  simply  informed  me  that  my  services  as 
best  man  would  not  be  required  after  all,  and 
that  he  would  be  gratified  if  I  would  refrain  from 
asking  damn  silly  questions.  (Not  that  I  had 
asked  any. )  Also,  that  he  looked  to  me  to  prevent 
other  persons  from  doing  so. 


6  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

And  now  Tom  Birnie  is  a  baronet  and  a  wid- 
ower, with  a  son  eighteen  years  old,  and  Eiric 
Bethune  is  still  an  eligible  bachelor  of  forty-three. 
And  how  he  hates  Tom  Birnie  !  However,  I  will 
introduce  Eric  presently.  First  of  all,  I  must  get 
our  party  to  church. 

ii 

THE  ancestral  hereditary  omnibus  of  the  house 
of  Baronrigg  deposited  us  at  the  kirk  door  at  ten 
fifty-five  precisely,  and  by  the  time  that  the  Rev- 
erend Doctor  Chirnside's  Bible  and  hymn-book 
had  been  set  out  upon  the  red  velvet  cushion  of 
the  pulpit  by  a  bulbous  old  friend  of  mine  named 
James  Dunshie —  an  octogenarian  of  austere 
piety,  an  infallible  authority  on  dry-fly  fishing, 
and  a  methodical  but  impervious  drinker — we 
were  all  boxed  into  our  places  in  the  private 
gallery  of  Baronrigg.  It  is  less  of  a  gallery  than 
a  balcony,  and  juts  out  curiously  from  the  side 
of  the  little  church,  with  the  public  gallery  run- 
ning across  the  end  wall  on  its  right,  and  the 
minister  on  its  left.  It  recedes  into  a  deep  alcove, 
and  at  the  back  is  a  fireplace,  in  which  a  fire  is 
always  kept  burning  upon  wintry  Sundays.  The 
Baronrigg  pew  —  and,  indeed,  Baronrigg  itself 
—  came  into  the  family  from  Diana's  side  of  the 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN        7 

house  :  she  brought  them  to  Tom  on  her  marriage. 
The  pew  is  rich  in  Carrick  associations.  It  is 
reported  of  old  Neil  Carrick,  the  grandfather  of 
Diana  and  my  Eve,  that  whenever  he  found  him- 
self dissatisfied  —  a  not  infrequent  occurrence  — 
with  the  discourse  of  Doctor  Chirnside's  prede- 
cessor, it  was  his  habit  to  rise  from  his  red  rep 
chair  in  the  forefront  of  the  gallery,  retire  to  the 
back,  make  up  the  fire  with  much  clatter  of  fire- 
irons,  and  slumber  peacefully  before  the  resulting 
blaze  with  his  back  to  the  rest  of  the  congregation. 
But  no  such  licence  was  permitted  to  us.  We 
sat  austerely  in  two  rows,  gazing  solemnly  at  the 
blank  wall  opposite  us,  while  Doctor  Chirnside 
worked  his  will  upon  his  flock.  Doctor  Chirnside 
is  a  tall,  silver-haired,  and  pugnacious  old  gentle- 
man of  about  seventy.  He  fears  God,  and 
exhibits  considerable  deference  towards  Tom 
Birnie  ;  but  he  regards  the  rest  of  his  congregation 
as  dirt.  (At  least,  that  is  how  we  feel  in  his 
presence.)  This  morning  he  entered  the  pulpit 
precisely  on  the  stroke  of  eleven,  in  deference  to 
the  Laird's  well-known  prejudices  on  the  subject 
of  punctuality — besides,  I  happened  to  know 
that  he  was  coming  on  to  lunch  at  Baronrigg 
after  service  —  and,  having  been  securely  locked 
in  by  James  Dunshie,  adjusted  his  spectacles  and 


8  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

gazed  fiercely  at  some  late  comers.  Then  he  gave 
out  the  opening  psalm. 

In  Craigf  oot  Parish  Church  we  always  sing  the 
opening  psalm  unaccompanied.  It  is  true  that 
we  possess  a  small  organ,  but  that  instrument  is 
still  regarded  with  such  deep  suspicion  by  some 
of  the  older  members  of  the  congregation  that  we 
only  employ  it  to  accompany  hymns — which,  as 
is  well  known,  have  little  effect  one  way  or  the 
other  upon  one's  ultimate  salvation.  But  we 
take  no  risks  with  the  Psalms  of  David.  These 
are  offered  without  meretricious  trimmings  of 
any  kind,  save  that  furnished  by  the  tuning-fork 
of  Andrew  Kilninver,  our  esteemed  auctioneer, 
estate  agent,  and  precentor. 

Accordingly,  when  Doctor  Chirnside  took  up 
his  psalter,  the  young  lady  at  the  organ  leaned 
back  nonchalantly  ;  Andrew  Kilninver  stirred 
importantly  in  his  seat,  tuning-fork  in  hand  ;  and 
the  choir — highly  scented  shop-girls  and  farmers' 
daughters,  assisted  by  overheated  young  men  in 
Sunday  "blacks"  and  choker  collars  —  braced 
themselves  with  the  air  of  people  upon  whose 
shoulders  the  credit,  and  maybe  redemption,  of  a 
whole  parish  rests. 

There  is  something  peculiarly  majestic  about 
the  manner  in  which  Doctor  Chirnside  opens  his 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN        9 

morning  service.  I  believe  that,  in  his  view,  the 
unaccompanied  psalm  is  the  one  relic  of  pure 
orthodoxy  preserved  by  him  against  the  modern 
passion  for  hymns,  organs,  printed  prayers, 
anthems,  and  "  brighter  worship "  generally. 
That  graceless  young  ruffian,  Roy  Birnie,  gives  an 
imitation  of  his  performance  which  is  celebrated 
throughout  the  parish.  It  runs  something  like 
this: 

"  Ha-humm  !  Brethren,  we  will  commence  the 
public  worrship  of  God,  this  Lord's  Day,  by  sing- 
ing to  His  praise  part  of  the  Seven  Hundred  and 
Forty-Ninth  Psalm.  Psalm  Seven  Hundred  and 
Forty-Nine.  Ha-humm  !  The  Church  is  full 
cold.  Will  Mr.  John  Buncle,  of  Sandpits,  kindly 
rise  in  his  pew  and  adjust  the  open  window  west 
of  him  ?  (Imitation  of  Mr.  John  Buncle,  petri- 
fied with  confusion,  adjusting  the  window. )  We 
will  commence  at  verrse  One  Hundred  and 
Seventy-Nine  : 

I,  like  a  bottle,  have  been 
With  Thy  great  maircy  filled, 
Oh,  hold  me  up,  hold  Thou  me  up, 
That  I  may  not  be  spilled  ! 

And  so  on  until  the  end  of  the  Psalm.  Psalm 
Seven  Hundred  and  Forty-Nine.  The  Seven 
Hundred  and  Forty-Ninth  Psalm.  Ping !  Ping ! 


10  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Ping!  (The  last  is  supposed  to  be  Kilninver 
getting  to  work  with  his  tuning-fork.)  Tune, 
Winchester,  '/,  like  a  bottle 

I  am  a  devout  person,  but  I  am  afraid  it  does 
sound  something  like  that. 

However,  one  feels  less  inclined  to  smile  when 
the  actual  singing  of  the  psalm  commences. 
The  Metrical  Psalms,  sung  in  unison,  without 
accompaniment,  and  with  strong,  rugged  voices 
predominating,  are  Scottish  history.  They  bring 
back  the  days  when  people  did  not  sing  them  in 
churches,  but  on  hillsides  in  remote  fastnesses,  at 
services  conducted  by  a  man  with  a  price  on  his 
head,  guarded  by  sentries  lying  prone  upon  the 
skyline,  on  the  look-out  for  Claverhouse  and  his 
troopers.  That  is  why  I,  coming  of  the  stock  I 
do,  like  to  hear  the  opening  psalm  at  Craigfoot. 

The  start,  as  a  rule,  is  not  all  what  it  might  be, 
for  the  Scots  are  a  slow-moving  race  ;  and  natur- 
ally it  takes  a  little  time  to  catch  up  with  Andrew 
Kilninver  and  his  comparatively  nimble  crew. 
But  about  the  middle  of  the  second  verse  we 
draw  together,  and  the  unsophisticated  rhymes, 
firmly  welded  now  with  the  grand  old  melody,  go 
rolling  upwards  and  outwards  through  the  open 
door  and  windows,  over  one  of  the  fairest  and 
richest  farming  districts  in  the  world  : 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN      11 

They  drop  upon  the  pastures  wide, 

That  do  in  deserts  lie  ; 
The  little  hills  on  every  side 

Rejoice  right  pleasantly. 
With  flocks  the  pastures  clothed  be, 

The  vales  with  corn  are  clad  ; 
And  now  they  shout  and  sing  to  Thee, 

For  Thou  hast  made  them  glad. 

I  am  a  soldier,  and  have  been  a  soldier  all  my 
life,  so  when  I  encounter  an  assemblage  of  my 
fellow  countrymen,  I  naturally  scrutinise  them 
from  a  recruiting  sergeant's  point  of  view.  (At 
least,  Eve  always  said  I  did. )  And  what  a  sight 
that  congregation  presented  !  I  have  encountered 
many  types  in  the  course  of  my  duty.  I  know 
our  own  Highlanders  ;  I  know  the  French  Zouave 
regiments ;  a  year  or  two  ago  —  in  nineteen-eleven 
I  think  it  was  —  I  saw  the  Prussian  Guard  march 
past  the  Emperor  during  Grand  Manoeuvres  ;  I 
have  ridden  with  the  Canadian  North- West 
Mounted  Police  ;  I  have  seen  a  Zulu  impi  on  the 
move  in  South  Africa.  All  have  their  own  par- 
ticular incomparabilities  —  dash,  endurance,  re- 
source, initiative  —  but  for  sheer  physical  solidity 
and  fighting  possibilities,  commend  me  to  the 
peaceful  yeoman-farming  stock  of  the  Lowlands 
of  Scotland.  My  own  regiment  is  mainly  re- 
cruited from  this  district,  so  perhaps  I  am 


12  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

prejudiced.  Still,  if  ever  the  present  era  of  inter- 
national restlessness  crystallises  into  something 
definite  ;  if  ever  The  Day,  about  which  we  hear 
so  much  and  know  so  little,  really  arrives — well, 
I  fancy  that  that  heavily-built,  round-shouldered 
throng  down  there,  with  their  shy,  self-conscious 
faces  and  their  uncomfortable  Sunday  clothes, 
will  give  an  account  of  themselves  of  which  their 
sonsy,  red-cheeked  wives  and  daughters  will  have 
no  cause  to  feel  ashamed. 

ill 

AFTER  the  psalm  we  settle  down  to  the  Doctor's 
first  prayer.  There  are  two  of  these,  separated 
by  an  entire  chapter  of  the  Old  Testament  —  a 
fairly  heavy  sandwich,  sometimes.  The  first 
prayer  lasts  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  second,  eight 
minutes.  The  first  prayer  takes  the  form  of  an 
interview  between  Doctor  Chirnside  and  his 
Maker  —  an  interview  so  confidential  in  character 
and  of  a  theological  atmosphere  so  rarefied  that 
few  of  us  are  able  to  attain  to  it.  So  our  attention 
occasionally  drops  to  lower  altitudes.  The  sec- 
ond prayer  is  more  adapted  to  humble  intellects. 
The  Doctor  refers  to  it  as  the  Prayer  of  Inter- 
cession. In  it  he  prays  for  everything  and  every- 
body, beginning  with  the  British  Empire  and 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN      13 

ending  with  the  Dorcas  Society.  Under  the 
cloak  of  Intercession,  too,  he  is  accustomed,  very 
ingeniously,  to  introduce,  and  comment  upon, 
topics  of  current  interest.  Occasionally  he  springs 
upon  us  a  genuine  and  delightful  surprise.  The 
parish  still  remembers  the  Sunday  morning  in 
eighteen-ninety-four  upon  which  the  Doctor,  in 
his  customary  intercession  for  the  Royal  Family, 
got  in  twenty-four  hours  ahead  of  Monday's 
Scotsman  by  concluding  his  orison  :  "  And  we 
invoke  Thy  special  blessing,  O  Lord,  upon  the 
infant  son  (and  ultimate  heir  to  the  Throne  of 
this  country)  born,  as  Thou  knowest,  Lord,  to 
Her  Majesty's  grandchildren,  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  York,  at  an  early  hour  this  morn- 
ing!" 

But  the  first  prayer,  as  already  indicated,  holds 
no  surprises.  I  am  therefore  accustomed  to 
devote  this  period  to  a  detailed  inspection  of  the 
congregation  below — an  occupation  which  has  the 
special  merit  of  being  compatible  with  an  attitude 
of  profound  devotion. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  explain  how  it  is  that  I,  a 
mere  visitor,  should  take  such  a  deep  interest  in 
Craigfoot  and  its  associations.  The  fact  is,  I  am 
no  visitor.  I  was  born  here,  not  ten  miles  awayf 
at  The  Heughs,  a  little  manor  among  the  foot- 


14  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

hills,  where  my  brother  Walter  and  his  lusty 
family  still  flourish.  As  a  younger  son  I  was 
destined  from  birth  for  the  Army  ;  but  by  the 
time  I  had  passed  into  Sandhurst,  and  on  to  the 
lordly  exile  of  our  Army  in  India,  I  knew  every 
acre  of  the  district.  I  had  tumbled  into  burns  and 
been  kicked  off  ponies  all  over  the  county.  I 
knew  everybody  who  lived  there,  from  our  local 
overlord,  the  Earl  of  Eskerley,  down  to  Bob 
Reid,  the  signal  porter  at  the  railway  station  — 
who,  being  well  aware  that  I  went  fishing  every 
Wednesday  at  Burling,  two  stations  up  the  line, 
was  accustomed  on  those  occasions  to  refuse  right 
of  way  to  the  morning  train,  palpitating  for  its 
connection  with  the  junction  ten  miles  distant, 
until  my  tardy  bicycle  swept  round  the  curve  of 
the  road  and  deposited  me  panting  on  the  plat- 
form. 

Inevitably,  the  day  came  when  I  fell  in  love — 
with  Eve.  That  was  no  novelty  for  Eve  ;  for  she 
and  her  elder  sister,  Diana,  had  most  of  us  on  a 
string  in  those  days.  Baronrigg  was  the  lode- 
stone  of  every  young  spark  in  the  county,  except 
during  those  dismal  months  in  summer  when  our 
twin  divinities  were  spirited  away  to  London  for 
the  season.  Some  were  able  to  follow  them  there  ; 
but  I  was  not.  Neither  was  Eric  Bethune.  Regi- 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN      15 

mental  duty  forbade,  though  we  did  what  we 
could  with  the  generous  leave  available  in  the 
early  nineties. 

Ultimately,  I  was  taken  and  Eric  was  left. 
Why  Eve  took  me  I  have  never  known.  I  was 
only  an  infantry  subaltern,  and  a  younger  son 
into  the  bargain.  But  she  picked  me  out  from 
the  crowd,  and  waited  for  me,  bless  her  !  for  seven 
years.  My  theory  was,  and  is,  that  a  woman  only 
marries  a  man  for  one  of  two  reasons  —  either 
because  he  gives  her  "a  thrill,"  or  because  she 
thinks  he  requires  taking  care  of.  There  was  no 
doubting  Eve's  reason  for  marrying  me.  She 
took  care  of  me  for  one  rapturous  year  ;  and  then 
she  left  me,  and  took  her  baby  with  her.  To-day 
both  lie  in  the  private  burial-ground  of  Baron- 
rigg.  That  is  why  I  always  accept  Tom's  annual 
invitation  to  stay  there  at  Easter,  rather  than  go 
to  my  brother  Walter's  cheery  but  distracting 
establishment  at  The  Heughs. 

That  is  enough  about  me.  Now  let  us  get  back 
to  the  congregation. 

It  was  a  representative  throng,  yet  not  entirely 
representative.  For  one  thing,  our  chief  terri- 
torial and  social  luminary,  Lord  Eskerley,  is  a 
member  of  the  Church  of  England  ;  and  when  he 
goes  to  church  at  all — which  is  usually  just  after 


16  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

a  heart-attack,  or  just  before  a  General  Election 
—  he  goes  to  Fiddrie.  For  another,  no  Scottish 
assemblage  can  be  counted  truly  representative 
which  takes  no  account  of  the  adherents  of  Holy 
Church  —  as  a  peep  into  Father  Kirkpatrick's 
tightly-packed  conventicle  on  the  other  side  of 
the  glen  would  tell  us.  But  when  all  is  said,  the 
parish  church  is  still  the  focus  of  Scottish  rural 
life,  and  I  was  well  content  with  the  selection  of 
friends  who  filled  the  pews  below  me. 

There  was  old  General  Bothwell,  of  Spring- 
burn,  a  Mutiny  and  Crimean  veteran  —  alto- 
gether quite  a  celebrity  among  a  generation  which 
knows  nothing  of  actual  warfare.  (After  all, 
the  South  African  affair  touched  our  civil  com- 
munity very  lightly. )  Beside  the  General  sits  his 
son  Jack,  home  on  leave  from  India.  He  com- 
mands a  company  in  a  Pathan  regiment.  The 
General  is  trying  hard  not  to  look  proud  of  Jack. 

Just  behind  the  Bothwells  sit  the  Graemes,  of 
Burling — Sir  Alistair,  his  Lady,  and  their  three 
tall  daughters,  known  and  celebrated  throughout 
the  county  as  "  The  Three  Grenadiers."  Across 
the  aisle  sits  old  Couper,  of  Abbottrigg — the 
largest  farmer  in  the  district,  and  one  of  the  best 
curlers  in  Scotland  —  with  his  wife.  The  old 
couple  are  alone  now,  for  all  their  sons  and  daugh- 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN      17 

ters  are  married.  However,  a  good  many  of  them 
are  present  in  other  parts  of  the  church,  holding  a 
fidgety  third  generation  down  in  its  seat. 

Just  in  front  of  the  Coupers  I  observe  Mr. 
Gillespie,  manager  of  our  branch  of  the  Bank  of 
Scotland,  a  man  of  immense  discretion  and  many 
secrets.  With  him,  Mrs.  Gillespie.  Also  the  two 
Misses  Gillespie,  locally  and  affectionately  re- 
nowned as  "  Spot "  and  "  Plain."  I  notice  that 
their  son,  Robert,  who  is  studying  for  the  Min- 
istry in  distant  Edinburgh,  is  with  them  for  the 
week-end. 

Farther  back,  at  the  end  of  a  long  pew,  just 
under  the  public  gallery,  sits  Galbraith,  our 
chemist  and  druggist,  a  small  man  with  a  heavy 
cavalry  moustache  and — the  not  uncommon 
accompaniment  of  a  small  man  —  a  large  wife  and 
twelve  children.  The  children  fall  into  two 
groups,  separated  by  an  interval  of  seven  years. 
The  first  group  —  four  in  number,  and  somewhat 
wizened  in  appearance  —  were  born  and  reared 
upon  the  slender  profits  of  a  retail  business  in 
tooth-brushes,  patent  medicines,  and  dog-soap. 
The  other  eight  —  fat  and  well-liking  —  began  to 
appear  serially  after  Mr.  Galbraith  had  amassed 
a  sudden  and  unexpected  fortune  out  of  a  patent 
sheep-dip  of  his  own  invention,  which  has  made 


18  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

the  name  of  Galbraith  celebrated  as  far  away  as 
Australia. 

Over  the  way  from  Galbraith,  in  a  side  pew, 
sits  Shanks,  the  joiner.  He  is  a  poor  creature, 
lacking  in  ability  either  to  ply  his  trade  or  invent 
reasons  for  not  doing  so.  Eve  used  to  say  that 
Shanks  never  by  any  chance  acceded  to  a  pro- 
fessional summons,  and  that  his  excuses  were 
three  in  number,  and  were  employed  in  monoton- 
ous rotation  —  firstly,  that  he  had  swallowed  some 
tacks  ;  secondly,  that  he  had  had  to  bury  "  a  re- 
lation of  the  wife's "  ;  thirdly,  that  one  of  his 
numerous  offspring  had  been  overtaken  by  a  fit. 

Behind  Shanks  sit  the  Misses  Peabody.  They 
are  the  daughters  of  a  retired  merchant  of  Leith, 
who  died  many  years  ago.  They  inhabit  a  villa 
on  the  outskirts  of  our  little  town,  live  on  an  an- 
nuity, and  exist  precariously  in  that  narrow  social 
borderland  which  divides  town-folk  from  gentry. 

Passing  on,  I  note  that  Mr.  Menzies,  Lord 
Eskerley's  factor,  has  at  last  provided  himself 
with  a  wife  —  a  stranger  to  me.  Well,  Menzies  is 
well  connected  and  has  an  excellent  house  ;  so, 
doubtless,  the  lady  will  be  comfortable.  But  I 
wish  he  had  not  gone  so  far  afield.  There  is 
nothing  wrong  with  the  girls  in  this  district, 
Menzies  1  Experto  crede  I 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN      19 

My  eye  wanders  on  over  the  bowed  heads. 
Finally  it  reaches  the  third  pew  from  the  front, 
and  I  am  aware  of  the  handsome  presence  of  my 
friend  Eric  Bethune,  of  Buckholm.  Beside  him, 
bolt  upright,  with  a  critical  eye  fixed  upon  Doctor 
Chirnside,  sits  his  eccentric  lady  mother.  Eric's 
attitude  is  more  devout,  but  I  observe  that  his 
head  is  turned  sideways,  and  that  he  is  grinning 
sympathetically  at  Tommy  Milroy  over  the  way, 
whose  little  nose  is  being  relentlessly  pressed  to 
the  book-board  by  an  iron  maternal  hand  encased 
in  a  hot  black  kid  glove. 

Eric,  although  he  is  as  old  as  myself,  is  still 
very  much  of  a  boy  —  or  perhaps  I  ought,  in  strict 
candour,  to  say  a  child.  He  was  a  child  at  school 
— in  his  exuberant  vitality,  his  sudden  friendships, 
his  petulance.  He  was  a  child  at  Sandhurst ;  he 
was  a  child  as  a  subaltern  —  at  times,  almost  a 
baby.  But  he  has  been  my  friend  all  my  life, 
and  I  admire  him  more  than  any  man  I  know  ; 
perhaps  because  he  possesses  all  the  qualities 
which  I  lack.  He  is  tall  and  debonair  ;  I  am — 
well,  neither.  He  is  impulsive,  frank,  and  popu- 
lar ;  I  am  cautious,  reticent  and  regarded  as  a 
little  difficult.  ( This  is  not  true  really,  only  there 
is  no  Eve  now  to  tell  me  what  to  say  to  people.) 

But,  above  all,  Eric  is  a  soldier.    In  the  South 


20  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

African  War  he  was  Adjutant  of  our  Second 
Battalion.  They  were  sent  out  rather  late,  and 
only  got  to  work  after  Paardeburg.  I  was  with 
the  other  battalion,  and  saw  nothing  of  Eric,  but 
his  Colonel  considered  him  the  smartest  Adjutant 
in  the  Division,  and  recommended  him  for  the 
D.S.O.  He  got  it,  but  always  declared  that  he 
had  had  no  chance  to  earn  it,  except  by  instructing 
the  men  very  thoroughly  in  what  is  vulgarly 
known  as  the  art  of  "  Spit  and  Polish."  Certainly 
they  were  the  best  turned-out  crowd  I  have  ever 
seen,  when  they  marched  through  the  streets  of 
Edinburgh  on  their  return. 

Directly  after  that  we  both  went  back  to  India. 
We  were  anxious  to  go.  Eve  had  died  just  before 
I  sailed  for  South  Africa  ;  Diana  had  broken  off 
her  engagement  with  Eric  and  married  Tom 
Birnie  three  years  earlier.  But  I  did  not  stay  in 
India  very  long.  I  was  restless  for  home  again  ; 
and,  having  decided  that  the  Regular  Army  could 
now  get  along  without  my  services,  I  sent  in  my 
papers  and  settled  in  London.  When  Roy  was 
nine  years  old  his  mother  followed  her  sister. 
She  had  survived  Eve  only  six  years,  for  the  same 
lung  trouble  had  marked  them  down  long  ago. 
After  that  Eric  felt  that  he  could  come  back  to 
Buckholm.  So  he  came,  and  they  gave  him  com- 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN      21 

mand  of  the  Regimental  Depot,  with  the  rank  of 
Major.  The  Depot  is  not  far  away  from  here, 
and  he  is  able  to  join  his  mother  at  Buckholm 
for  much  of  the  time.  He  is  quite  his  old  self 
now,  and  he  has  made  the  Third  Battalion  a 
marvel  of  smartness  and  efficiency.  But  there  is 
one  house  which  he  never  visits  —  Baronrigg.  I 
do  not  blame  him.  His  memories  there  are  not 
like  mine.  Moreover,  besides  hating  Tom  Birnie, 
he  dislikes  Roy.  I  am  surprised  at  this,  because 
the  boy  is  the  image  of  his  mother.  Still,  I  sup- 
pose a  man  may  be  forgiven  for  disliking  a  boy 
who  should  have  been  his  own  son,  but  is  not. 
Anyhow,  I  know  I  shall  not  meet  Eric  during  my 
stay  at  Baronrigg,  so  I  have  arranged  to  lunch  at 
Buckholm  after  church  to-day. 

That  covers  the  congregation,  I  think.  (Doctor 
Chirnside  is  working  up  to  his  peroration,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  we  shall  be  erect  again.)  I  look 
over  them  once  more.  Altogether,  a  sturdy,  satis- 
factory assemblage,  from  laird  to  ploughman. 
We  have  not  changed  much  in  the  last  two  hun- 
dred years,  nor  will  during  the  next  two  hundred, 
so  far  as  I  can  see.  We  are  Conservatives  of 
Conservatives,  although  we  return  a  Liberal.  We 
shall  go  on  tilling  the  fat  soil,  and  raising  fat 
cattle,  and  marrying  young,  and  having  big 


22  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

families,  and  sending  a  few  of  the  boys  into  the 
Army,  and  a  few  to  the  Colonies,  and  keep  the 
rest  at  home  to  marry  strapping  girls  and  have 
more  big  families,  until  the  end  of  time. 

We  are  a  little  disturbed,  to  be  sure,  at  the 
present  state  of  the  world  outside.  A  street-bred 
Government,  with  both  eyes  on  the  industrial 
vote,  has  recently  compelled  us,  even  us,  to  dis- 
burse our  hard-earned  pennies  upon  stamps,  to  be 
stuck  at  frequent  intervals  upon  an  objectionable 
card.  We  are  informed  that  this  wasteful  and 
uncongenial  exercise  is  designed  to  bestow  upon 
us  the  benefits  of  insurance  against  sickness  — 
upon  us,  who  are  never  either  sick  or  sorry  ;  and 
if  ever  we  are,  are  taken  care  of  (under  an  un- 
written compact  of  immemorial  antiquity)  by  the 
employers  who  have  known  us  and  ours  for  gener- 
ations back.  Other  political  upheavals  are  agi- 
tating the  country,  but  they  leave  us  cold  in 
comparison  with  this  superfluous  imposition  of 
benevolence. 

But  still,  politicians  are  always  with  us,  and 
must  be  endured  ;  so  what  matter  ?  Our  valleys 
stand  so  thick  with  corn  that  they  laugh  and 
sing,  and  even  with  Income  Tax  at  one  and  two- 
pence in  the  pound,  things  might  be  worse.  After 
all,  we  have  our  health,  and  perhaps  it  is  our 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN      23 

duty  to  contribute  to  the  insurance  of  those  sickly 
city  folk.  A  few  stamps  are  not  a  very  high  price 
to  pay  for  peace  and  prosperity  and  sleepy  con- 
tentment in  the  heart  of  the  British  Empire. 

IV, 

...  I  THINK  I  must  have  begun  to  nod  a  little. 
It  was  a  warm  morning,  and  the  sunshine  and  the 
songs  of  the  birds  without,  and  the  confidential 
rumblings  of  Doctor  Chirnside  within,  had  exer- 
cised a  soporific  effect.  But  I  opened  my  eyes 
with  a  jerk,  and  observed  that  the  Netherby  pew 
was  occupied. 

Netherby  has  stood  empty  so  long  that  it  is 
quite  a  shock  to  see  its  pew  inhabited  at  all.  It  is 
a  conspicuous  pew,  in  the  corner  of  the  church,  to 
the  left  of  the  pulpit,  and  my  unregenerate 
nephews  and  nieces  call  it  "  The  Loose  Box."  It 
is  built  in  the  form  of  a  hollow  square,  and  is 
surrounded  by  dingy  red  rep  curtains,  which 
enable  its  occupants  to  gaze  upon  the  officiating 
clergy  without  themselves  being  gazed  upon  by 
the  congregation.  However,  the  pew  is  over- 
looked by  the  Baronrigg  gallery. 

This  morning  the  Netherby  pew  contained 
seven  occupants,  humped  devoutly  round  the 
square  table  in  the  centre.  Upon  the  table  re- 


S4  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

posed  a  gentleman's  silk  hat,  or  topper.  Now, 
in  this  part  of  the  country,  gentlemen  do  not  wear 
silk  hats  on  Sunday.  They  wear  bowlers,  or 
Homburg  hats,  or  even  motoring  caps.  Neither 
do  they  wear  frock-coats,  like  the  obvious  pro- 
prietor of  "  The  Loose  Box."  He  was  a  squarely- 
built  man,  and  from  what  I  could  see  of  his  face, 
he  wore  mutton-chop  whiskers.  There  was  also 
a  middle-aged  lady  in  a  rather  unsuitable  hat. 
There  were  two  boys  of  nineteen  or  twenty. 
There  were  two  or  three  small  children,  con- 
strained and  restless.  There  was  an  elderly  man 
with  a  beard  like  a  goat's,  gazing  upwards  at 
Doctor  Chirnside  with  an  air  which  struck  me  as 
critical.  One  felt  that  he  would  have  taken  the 
Doctor's  place  without  any  pressing  whatsoever. 
I  put  him  down  for  a  visitor  of  some  kind. 

And  there  was  a  girl.  At  least,  there  was  a  hat 
—  a  big  black  tulle  hat — and  I  assumed  that 
there  was  a  girl  underneath  it.  I  could  see  her 
frock,  which  was  white.  So  were  her  gloves, 
which  extended  above  her  elbows.  Her  hands 
were  long  and  slim.  I  began  to  feel  curious  to  see 
her  face. 

Suddenly  I  realised  that  I  was  not  alone  in  this 
ambition.  On  my  left,  that  young  rascal  Roy 
was  hanging  outward  and  downward  at  a  danger- 


VALLEYS  THICK  WITH  CORN      25 

ous  and  indecorous  angle,  in  a  characteristically 
thorough  attempt  to  look  under  the  brim  of  the 
black  tulle  hat.  Needless  to  say,  in  romantic 
enterprises  of  this  kind,  competition,  especially 
with  the  young,  makes  one  feel  merely  foolish,  so 
I  resumed  my  normal  position  and  closed  my 
eyes  with  an  air  of  severe  reproof. 

Almost  directly  afterwards  the  First  Prayer 
came  to  a  conclusion,  and  we  all  sat  up.  Simul- 
taneously the  girl  in  the  hat  lifted  her  head.  The 
Parish  Church  is  small  and  the  range  was  com- 
paratively short.  For  a  moment  her  face  was 
upturned  in  our  direction.  I  heard  Roy  give  a 
gasp  of  admiration. 

"  Let  us  read  together,"  suggested  the  inde- 
fatigable Doctor  Chirnside,  "  in  the  Fifty-Fifth 
Chapter  of  the  Book  of  the  Prophet  Isaiah. 
Chapter  Fifty-Five.  The  first  verse.  Ho,  every 
one  that  thirsteih  ..." 

But  I  am  afraid  I  was  not  listening.  I  was 
watching  the  girl's  face  —  as  well  I  might,  for  it 
was  the  face  of  a  flower.  She  leaned  back  in  her 
seat  against  the  wall,  and  composed  herself  for 
the  Fifty-Fifth  Chapter  of  Isaiah.  Suddenly,  for 
some  reason,  she  lifted  her  head  again.  This  time 
her  eyes  encountered  Master  Roy's  honest  and 
rapturous  gaze.  They  fell  immediately,  but  up 


26  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

from  the  open  throat  of  her  white  Sunday  frock, 
over  her  face,  and  right  into  the  roots  of  her 
abundant  fair  hair,  ran  a  vivid  burning  blush. 

I  looked  at  Roy.    He  was  crimson  too. 

Spring !    Spring !    Spring  1 


CHAPTER  II 

REBELLIOUS  MABJOREG 
I 

WHILE  Sunday  at  Baronrigg  was  a  day  of  mild 
tribulation,  Sunday  at  Netherby  was  a  day  of 
wrath.  It  was  a  direct  survival  of  the  darkest 
period  of  the  Victorian  era. 

Albert  Clegg — or,  rather,  Mr.  Albert  Clegg 
—  believed  in  taking  no  risks  with  his  immortal 
soul,  or  with  those  of  his  family.  He  also  believed 
in  being  master  in  his  own  house.  Accordingly, 
when  he  bade  his  household  remember  the  Sab- 
bath day  to  keep  it  holy,  the  household,  as  they 
say  in  the  Navy,  "made  it  so."  The  necessary 
standard  of  sanctity  was  attained,  firstly,  by  the 
removal  on  Saturday  night  to  locked  cupboards 
of  everything  in  the  shape  of  frivolous  or  worldly 
literature  ;  in  place  of  which  there  appeared  a 
few  "Sunday"  books  —  the  latest  record,  may- 
hap, of  missionary  endeavour,  together  with  one 
or  two  godly  romances  of  a  rather  distressing 
character.  Periodical  literature  was  represented 
by  The  Sunday  at  Home,  while  unsecular  com- 
ment on  current  events  was  furnished  bv  that 


£8  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

brilliantly  ingenious  combination  of  broad  reli- 
gion and  literary  entertainment,  The  British 
Weekly. 

The  necessary  atmosphere  having  been  duly 
created,  those  two  powerful  engines,  Prayer  and 
Fasting,  were  now  set  in  motion.  The  latter,  to 
be  just,  was  of  little  account :  its  operation  merely 
involved  the  omission  of  afternoon  tea  and  the 
substitution  of  cold  supper  for  ordinary  dinner. 
But  the  devotional  programme  of  the  Clegg 
Sunday  was  an  exacting  business.  It  opened 
with  family  prayers  at  eight -thirty  a.m.,  including 
an  extemporary  supplication  by  the  master  of  the 
house.  Catechism  came  at  nine-thirty,  Church 
at  eleven  o'clock.  The  household  were  conveyed 
thither  in  the  Rolls-Royce.  In  the  course  of 
time,  as  the  glory  of  that  extremely  new  vehicle 
faded,  and  the  task  of  making  an  impression  upon 
the  neighbourhood  accomplished  itself,  the  young 
Cleggs  gloomily  foresaw  a  still  further  extension 
of  Sabbath  observance,  in  the  direction  of  pedes- 
trian exercise.  Meanwhile,  they  covered  the  three 
miles  to  church  in  the  car,  and  were  thankful  for 
small  mercies. 

-•  After  one  o'clock  dinner,  the  family  sang 
hymns.  Marjorie  accompanied  —  not  very  con- 
vincingly, owing  to  the  presence  of  a  surreptitious 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  29 

novel  or  volume  of  poetry  propped  upon  the 
music-rest  beside  the  hymn-book.  You  cannot 
engage  in  psalmody  and  mental  culture  simul- 
taneously with  any  degree  of  plausibility.  The 
younger  children  sang  a  shrill  soprano  ;  brothers 
Amos  and  Joe  growled  self-consciously  an  octave 

—  sometimes  two  octaves  —  lower.     Sister  Amy 

—  a  plain  but  intensely  pious  child  of  fourteen — 
offered  a  windy  and  unmelodious  contribution 
which  she  termed  "  seconds."    Mrs.  Clegg  sang 

—  as  she  did  everything  else  —  dutifully,   and 
slightly  apologetically.    Mr.  Clegg  sang  what  he 
had  imagined  for  more  than  thirty  years  to  be 
tenor,  inciting  his  fellow-choristers  to  continued 
effort  by  beating  time  with  his  hymn-book,  until 
post-prandial  drowsiness  intervened,  and  he  re- 
tired to  bed,  with  all  his  clothes  on,  for  his  Sabbath 
nap.    During  this  interval  the  family  enjoyed  a 
slight   respite   from    Sabbath   observance  —  all, 
that  is,  but  the  younger  members,  who  received 
instructions  in  Biblical  history  from  two  small 
and  not  uninteresting  manuals,  entitled  Peep  of 
Day  and  Line  Upon  Line,  with  maternal  addi- 
tions and  elucidations  of  a  somewhat  surprising 
character. 

At  six  o'clock  the  chauffeur  was  once  more 
called  upon  to  observe  the  Sabbath  by  conveying 


30  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

the  family  to  evening  service  at  the  parish  church. 
The  small  fry,  in  consideration  of  Peep  of  Day 
and  Line  Upon  Line,  were  permitted  to  go  to  bed. 

After  cold  supper  at  eight-thirty,  the  devotional 
exercises  of  the  day  petered  out  with  a  second 
instalment  of  family  prayers,  including  what 
brother  Joe  (Marjorie's  accomplice  and  pet)  was 
wont  to  describe  as  "  a  final  solo  from  Pa."  After 
that,  the  exhausted  household  retired  to  rest,  leav- 
ing the  master  to  relax  himself  from  the  spiritual 
ension  of  the  day  with  weak  whisky-and-water. 

Albert  Clegg  had  bought  Netherby  a  year  pre- 
viously. He  came  from  the  North  of  England, 
and  was  deeply  interested  in  Tyneside  shipping. 
His  father  had  been  a  small  tradesman  in  Gates- 
head.  Albert's  initial  opportunities  had  not  been 
too  great,  but  he  possessed  two  priceless  natural 
assets  —  superb  business  capacity  and  a  sincere 
dislike  for  recreation  or  amusement  of  any  kind. 
At  twenty-one  he  was  a  clerk  in  a  rather  moribund 
shipping  business.  At  twenty-five  he  was  man- 
aging clerk.  In  that  capacity  he  took  it  upon 
himself,  unofficially,  to  investigate  the  books  of 
the  firm — he  was  the  sort  of  young  man  who 
would  joyfully  devote  a  series  of  fine  Saturday 
afternoons  to  such  an  enterprise  —  and  was  ulti- 
mately able  to  expose  a  leakage  of  profits  which 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  31 

had  kept  the  venerable  and  esteemed  cashier  of 
the  office  in  considerably  greater  comfort  than  his 
employers  for  the  past  ten  years.  Needless  to 
say,  Albert  was  the  next  cashier.  At  thirty  he 
was  junior  partner  and  practically  dictator.  A 
few  years  later  his  exhausted  seniors  gave  up  the 
struggle,  and  allowed  themselves  to  be  bought 
out.  Albert  promptly  called  in  his  younger 
brother  Fred,  who,  up  to  date,  had  been  dividing 
his  undoubted  talents  fairly  evenly  between  jerry- 
building  and  revivalist  preaching  —  a  combina- 
tion of  occupations  which  enabled  him  to 

Compound  for  sing  he  was  inclined  t0t 
By  damning  those  he  had  no  mind  to — 

thus  marking  himself  down  as  an  ultimate  and 
inevitable  ornament  of  our  National  Legislature. 
Fred  was  taken  into  partnership.  From  that  day 
the  firm  of  Clegg  Brothers  went  from  strength  to 
strength. 

Albert  Clegg's  first  wife  was  what  Lady  Chris- 
tina would  have  described  as  "  a  young  person  of 
his  own  station  in  life."  She  had  died  a  few  years 
after  the  birth  of  Master  Amos.  The  present 
Mrs.  Clegg  was  a  member  of  an  aristocratic  but 
impoverished  family  named  Higgie,  of  Tyne- 
mouth,  and  she  came  to  Albert  just  at  a  time  when 
his  rising  fortunes  called  for  a  helpmeet  possessed 


82  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

of  the  social  accomplishments  which  he  himself  so 
entirely  lacked.  On  his  second  marriage,  he  re- 
moved from  Gateshead  to  a  large  house  in  the 
pleasant  suburb  of  Jesmond,  and  lived  there  for 
twenty  years,  while  the  Clegg  firm  prospered  and 
the  Clegg  family  multiplied.  As  already  fore- 
shadowed, brother  Fred's  combined  reputations 
as  a  captain  of  industry  and  a  silver-tongued 
orator  presently  wafted  him  into  Parliament, 
where  he  established  a  reputation  for  verbosity 
and  irrelevance  remarkable  even  in  that  eclectic 
assembly. 

That  is  all  that  need  be  said  about  Mr.  Albert 
Clegg  for  the  present.  The  main  purpose  of  this 
brief  summary  of  his  character  and  achievements 
is  to  provide  the  reader  with  some  sort  of  key  —  in 
so  far  as  keys  are  of  any  use  at  all  where  feminine 
locks  are  concerned — to  the  character  of  that 
rather  unexpected  young  person,  his  daughter 
Marjorie.  For  it  was  from  her  father,  most 
undoubtedly,  that  Marjorie  derived  her  initiative 
and  determination.  From  her  mother  she  seemed 
to  have  inherited  nothing,  except  her  Christian 
name  and  her  naturally  waved  hair.  Everything 
else — her  superb  body,  her  absolute  honesty,  her 
lively  sense  of  humour,  her  critical  attitude 
towards  certain  existing  things,  and,  above  all, 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  33 

her  warm,  impulsive  young  heart  —  came  from 
that  one  supreme  gift  of  God  which  is  entirely 
our  own  —  set  high  out  of  reach  of  those  twin 
busybodies,  Heredity  and  Environment  —  Per- 
sonality. 

ii 

Ox  the  particular  spring  morning  with  which 
we  are  already  concerned,  Marjorie  made  a  bad 
start.  She  missed  prayers  altogether,  and  was 
late  for  breakfast  into  the  bargain.  To  crown 
her  iniquity,  she  entered  the  dining-room  whist- 
ling a  secular  air,  with  her  arms  full  of  daffodils. 

Whistling  is  at  all  times  an  unladylike  accom- 
plishment, even  though  one  whistle  like  a  mavis. 
Moreover,  it  was  Sunday.  Furthermore,  Uncle 
Fred  was  present  on  a  visit,  and  one  has  to  keep 
up  appearances  before  relations,  however  despic- 
able. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  satisfied  with  Doctor  Chirn- 
side,"  Mr.  Clegg  was  remarking.  "  But  we  must 
employ  such  instruments  as  lie  to  our  hands." 

"That  is  very  true,"  remarked  Uncle  Fred, 
making  a  mental  note  of  this  apt  expression. 
Uncle  Fred  was  an  industrious  gleaner  of  other 
people's  impromptus,  with  a  view  to  parliamen- 
tary requirements. 


34  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"As  you  know,"  continued  Mr.  Clegg,  "our 
own  Body  is  not  represented  in  this  county. 
The  nearest  United  Free  Church — which  con- 
forms most  closely  to  our  own  beliefs — is  fifteen 
miles  away.  In  any  case,  I  consider  that  a  house- 
hold should,  as  far  as  possible,  worship  in  its  own 
district." 

"Quite  right,"  said  Uncle  Fred.  "Like  a 
constituency." 

"Besides,  we  would  not  get  to  know  people 
any  other  way,"  interposed  Mrs.  Clegg  timidly. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Clegg  severely,  "we 
cannot  worship  God  and  Mammon.  And  I  will 
thank  you  for  another  cup  of  tea.  John,  my  boy, 
eat  up  that  crust ;  I  know  of  many  a  poor  lad 
that  would  be  glad  of  it.  The  only  other  places 
of  worship  within  easy  reach,"  he  continued, 
"besides  the  parish  church  (Established,  of 
course) ,  are  a  Papist  Chapel,  Burling  way,  which 
I  do  not  go  to  very  often" — Mr.  Clegg  paused 
and  assumed  a  wintry  smile,  to  indicate  that  he 
spoke  sarcastically  —  "and  the  English  Episco- 
pal Church  at  Fiddrie — where  I  would  as  soon 
see  any  belongings  of  mine  trying  to  disport 
themselves  as  in  the  Church  of  Rome  itself." 

Mr.  Clegg  paused,  and  Uncle  Fred  laughed 
sardonically.  Mrs.  Clegg,  who  all  her  life  had 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  35 

hankered  after  the  comfortable  consolations  of 
Anglican  ritual  and  the  social  cachet  of  an  Angli- 
can connection,  smothered  a  sigh,  for  she  knew 
to  what  address  her  husband's  remark  was 
directed. 

At  this  moment,  as  related,  Marjorie  tramped 
in,  whistling,  with  her  daffodils. 

"  Hallo  !  am  I  late  ? "  she  inquired.  "  I  am 
so  sorry  :  I  was  out  gathering  these.  Good 
morning,  everybody  ! " 

She  sat  down  amid  a  deathly  silence. 

"  What  were  you  all  talking  about?  "  Marjorie 
rattled  on.  "  Church,  wasn't  it  ?  I  wonder  how 
many  hours  old  Chirnside  will  preach  to-day  ? 
Oh,  that  awful  children's  sermon  !  I  don't  think 
it's  sportsmanlike  to  make  you  listen  to  two  ser- 
mons in  one  morning.  My  idea  is  that  during 
the  grown-ups'  sermon  the  children  should  be 
allowed  to  go  out  and  play,  and  that  during  the 
children's  sermon  the  grown-ups  should  have 
their  choice  of  going  out  too,  or  lying  right  down 
in  the  pews  and  having  a  nap  ! "  She  gazed  out 
of  the  window,  over  the  sunny  landscape.  "  I 
know  which  I  should  choose  1 " 

"  My  girl,"  interposed  Mr.  Clegg,  "  if  you  talk 
in  that  strain  I  shall  regret  more  than  ever  that 
I  allowed  your  mother  to  send  you  to  that  school 
in  Paris." 


36  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Marjorie  had  been  "finished" — which  means 
"begun"  —  at  Neuilly.  It  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand why  her  father  had  sent  her  there,  except 
that  it  was  expensive.  Mr.  Clegg  had  long  trans- 
ferred the  blame  for  this  lapse  of  judgment  to 
his  wife. 

During  those  two  quickening  years,  Marjorie, 
though  hedged  about  by  every  preventive  device 
known  to  the  scholastic  hierarchy,  had  fairly 
wallowed  in  Life  —  Life  as  opposed  to  Existence. 
She  had  sucked  in  Life  through  her  pores  ;  she 
had  scrutinised  Life  through  her  shrewd  blue 
eyes  ;  she  had  masticated  Life  with  her  vigorous 
young  teeth.  Life  in  Paris,  even  as  viewed  from 
the  ranks  of  a  governess-guided  "crocodile"  in 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  or  a  processional  excursion 
to  the  Tuileries,  is  a  stimulating  and  disturbing 
compound,  especially  to  unemancipated  seven- 
teen. At  any  rate,  Marjorie  had  returned  to  her 
home  possessing  certain  characteristics  which  had 
not  been  apparent  when  she  left  it.  These  were, 
roughly,  three  in  number  : 

Firstly,  a  passionate  interest  in  the  world  and 
its  contents.  She  was  ablaze  with  enthusiasm  for 
all  mankind.  She  wanted  to  do  something — to 
be  a  hospital  nurse,  a  journalist,  a  chorus  girl,  a 
barmaid  —  anything,  in  fact,  that  would  bring  her 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  37 

into  contact  with  her  fellow-creatures  and,  if  pos- 
sible, enable  her  to  make  herself  uncomfortable  on 
their  behalf.  She  was  a  Giver,  through  and 
through. 

Secondly,  an  entire  lack  of  sentimentality. 
Young  men  made  no  appeal  to  her.  She  had 
never  flirted  in  her  life  :  she  did  not  know  how. 
She  made  friendships  at  a  rush — many  of  them 
with  boys  of  her  own  age — but  if  any  young  man 
flattered  himself  that  he  had  made  a  tender 
impression,  he  was  soon  woefully  undeceived. 
Marjorie  was  purely  maternal.  If  she  was  kind 
to  a  young  man  it  was  because  she  felt  sorry  for 
him — sorry  for  his  adorable  clumsiness,  his  trans- 
parency, his  helplessness,  his  lack  of  finesse. 
Young  men,  as  a  class,  never  gave  her  a  thrill. 
She  loved  her  own  sex  too,  especially  the  self- 
conscious  and  foolish.  Marjorie's  main  instinct 
at  that  time,  and  indeed  through  all  her  life,  was 
to  interpose  her  own  beautiful  and  vigorous  young 
personality  between  the  weaker  vessels  of  her 
acquaintance  and  the  hard  knocks  of  this  world. 

Thirdly,  a  strongly  critical  attitude  towards  the 
theory  that  children  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to 
their  parents  for  the  mere  fact  of  having  been 
brought  by  them  into  existence.  Loyal  she  was, 
because  it  was  her  nature.  Dutiful  she  was  pre- 


88  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

pared  to  be.  She  was  impulsively  affectionate 
always ;  but  her  inborn  sense  of  equity  was 
strong.  Moreover,  for  two  years  she  had  asso- 
ciated with  new  companions  —  members  of  an- 
other world  than  her  own — either  young  girls  of 
the  English  upper  class,  who  were  accustomed  to 
regard  their  parents  as  amiable  but  unsophisti- 
cated accomplices  in  misdemeanour,  or  maidens 
from  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  who  appeared 
to  entertain  no  opinion  of  their  parents,  as  such, 
at  all.  This  association  had  shaken  to  its  founda- 
tion the  law  of  her  childhood — that  children  ex- 
isted entirely  for  the  convenience  of  their  parents, 
and  must  expect  no  consideration,  no  indulgence, 
and,  above  all,  no  camaraderie  from  those  aloof 
and  exalted  beings.  In  the  spring  of  nineteen- 
fourteen  Youth  had  not  yet  been  called  in  to 
rescue  Age  from  extinction. 

Such  was  Marjorie  at  eighteen  —  a  dangerous 
mixture,  particularly  liable  to  explode  under 
compression. 

She  had  risen  early  this  Sunday  morning  in 
order  to  ramble  through  the  woods  and  compose 
her  turbulent  spirit.  The  previous  evening  had 
witnessed  a  sleep-destroying  interview  between 
her  father  and  herself.  After  prayers,  while  Mr. 
Clegg,  according  to  his  custom,  was  setting  the 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  39 

markers  in  the  great  family  Bible  for  the  follow- 
ing morning's  devotions,  Marjorie  had  seated 
herself  beside  him  at  the  head  of  the  library  table, 
with  the  air  of  one  determined  upon  a  plunge. 
She  waited  until  the  servants  had  filed  out  and  the 
rest  of  the  family  were  dispersed.  Then  she  came 
to  the  attack  with  characteristic  promptness. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  may  I  go  and  be  trained 
as  a  hospital  nurse  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Clegg,  without  hesitation  or 
heat ;  "you  may  not." 

"May  I  learn  shorthand  and  typewriting, 
then?" 

"No." 

"May  I  go  and  take  training  in  some  pro- 
fession ?  Any  kind,"  she  added  eagerly,  "  as  long 
as  it  is  useful." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Clegg  for  the  third  time.  Then 
with  the  air  of  a  just  person  patient  under  im- 
portunity : 

"Why?" 

"  For  two  reasons,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  want  to 
be  useful,  and  I  want  to  be  independent." 

For  answer,  Mr.  Clegg  reopened  the  Bible,  and 
with  the  accuracy  of  long  practice  came  almost 
immediately  upon  what  he  wanted  —  certain  illu- 
minated manuscript  pages  occurring  between  the 


40  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Old  and  New  Testaments.  There  were  six  of 
these  pages.  Two  were  allotted  to  the  Births, 
two  to  the  Marriages,  and  two  to  the  Deaths  of 
the  house  of  Clegg.  Albert  Clegg  turned  to  the 
Births,  and  ran  his  finger  down  the  list.  There 
were  quite  a  number  of  names,  for  the  Bible  was 
a  family  inheritance. 

Presently  he  found  what  he  wanted.  A  line  in 
red  ink  had  been  drawn  right  across  the  page 
under  the  name  of  his  youngest  brother,  Uncle 
Fred,  to  indicate  the  end  of  a  generation.  Below 
this  line  was  written,  in  his  own  neat  business 
hand : 

Children  of  Albert  and  Mary  Clegg. 

This  title-heading  had  erred  on  the  side  of 
plurality,  for  beneath  it  came  but  one  entry  — 
that  of  the  birth  of  Albert's  eldest  son,  Amos,  at 
Gateshead,  upon  the  tenth  of  March,  Eighteen 
Ninety-two.  A  second  heading  followed  imme- 
diately : 

Children  of  Albert  and  Marjorie  Clegg. 

After  this  came  quite  a  satisfying  list.  First, 
Joe's  name  —  it  proved  to  be  Joshua,  in  full — 
recorded  upon  the  twelfth  of  August,  Eighteen 
Ninety-four.  Then  came  the  entry  he  was  seek- 
ing : 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  41 

Marjorie ;  born  at  "  The  Laburnums,"  Jesmond, 
April  twenty-fourth,  Eighteen  Ninety-Six. 

Albert  Clegg  surveyed  his  daughter  over  the 
top  of  his  spectacles,  which  had  been  assumed  for 
purposes  of  perusal,  and  performed  a  small  exer- 
cise in  mental  arithmetic. 

"  That  makes  you  eighteen,"  he  observed. 

Marjorie  nodded.  At  this  point,  to  her  intense 
annoyance,  the  egregious  Uncle  Fred  re-entered 
the  room  and  joined  the  Board. 

"Girls  of  eighteen — "  began  her  father. 

"Young  ladies  of  eighteen,"  amended  the 
Member  of  Parliament. 

" — have  no  call  to  be  independent,"  continued 
Albert  Clegg  ;  "  and  if  they  want  to  be  of  some 
use  they  can  stay  at  home  and  help  their  mothers, 
as  God  meant  them  to." 

"Mother,"  riposted  Marjorie,  "has  more  ser- 
vants than  she  knows  what  to  do  with,  and  she 
hates  interference  with  her  house  management, 
anyway.  I  have  been  home  now  for  three 
months,  honestly  trying  to  help,  and  there  isn't 
a  single  thing  for  me  to  do.  There  are  hundreds 
of  things  I  can  do  away  from  here.  I  do  not  ask 
to  go  out  and  do  them  now,  but  I  do  ask  to  be 
trained  in  something  useful,  so  that  when  the 
time  comes — " 


42  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  When  what  time  comes  ? "  asked  her  father 
quickly. 

"  The  time  when  it  will  be  a  living  impossibility 
for  me  to  stick  it  out  any  longer,"  said  Marjorie 
frankly.  "  Do  you  think  I  can  sit  here  for  ever  " 
— with  one  comprehensive  gesture  she  sum- 
marised Netherby,  with  its  stodgy  gentility,  its 
squirrel-cage  routine,  and  its  cast-iron  piety  — 
"  twiddling  my  thumbs  ?  Every  girl  has  a  right 
to  make  herself  efficient,  nowadays." 

"  What  comes  before  our  rights,"  said  Albert 
Clegg,  "is  our  duty  —  our  grateful  duty  to  the 
parents  that  brought  us  up." 

"Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother"  chaunted 
the  apposite  Uncle  Fred,  "  that  thy  days —  " 

Marjorie  sat  up. 

"  I  hope  I  do  honour  my  father  and  mother," 
she  said.  "  I  am  fond  of  them  both  :  they  have 
been  kind  to  me  all  my  life.  But  I  do  not  see 
why  I  should  be  particularly  grateful  to  them  for 
bringing  me  up.  After  all" — turning  to  her 
father — "you  had  to,  hadn't  you?  You  were 
responsible  for  my  being  here,  weren't  you  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  parents  owe  a  debt  to  their 
children — not  children  to  their  parents  ! " 

This  amazingly  audacious  deliverance — and 
one  had  to  be  familiar  with  the  Clegg  tradition  to 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  43 

realise  how  audacious  it  was  —  produced  a  stun- 
ning silence.  Uncle  Fred,  fumbling  in  his  reper- 
toire for  something  really  commensurate,  breathed 
alarmingly.  Presently  Albert  Clegg's  heavy 
voice  broke  in  : 

"A  debt  ?  You  mean  I  owe  you  a  —  a  debt 
of  gratitude  ? " 

"Not  gratitude,"  replied  Marjorie.  "Some- 
thing bigger  —  honour.  I  think  that  parents  owe 
it  to  their  children,  having  brought  them  into  the 
world  —  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  she  added  a 
little  shyly,  "to  give  them  a  chance  to  live  the 
sort  of  life  that  appeals  to  them." 

Uncle  Fred  was  ready  now. 

"The  French,"  he  announced,  "are  a  giddy 
and  godless  race  ! " 

But  neither  Albert  Clegg  nor  his  daughter  took 
any  notice.  Wide  apart  as  their  natures  lay,  they 
had  one  point  in  common  —  inflexible  determina- 
tion. Clegg  surveyed  Marjorie's  curving  lips 
and  hot  blue  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  asked  : 

"  So  you  want  to  live  your  own  life,  eh  ? " 

Marjorie  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "At  least,  I  don't  want  to 
rush  off  and  live  it  right  away  ;  but  I  do  think  I 
ought  to  be  given  sufficient —  "  she  hesitated  for 
a  word. 


44  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  Equipment  ? "  suggested  her  father. 

"Rope  ?"  amended  Uncle  Fred. 

Marjorie  nodded  to  her  father  again. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "sufficient  equipment.  A 
girl  ought  to  be  capable  of  doing  something.  I 
have  told  you  some  of  the  things  a  girl  might 
learn  to  do,  but  there  are  lots  of  others.  Even  if 
she  could  support  herself  on  the  Stage  it  would 
be  something." 

" The  Stage?" 

Marjorie  had  exploded  a  bombshell  this  time. 
Uncle  Fred's  goat-beard  dropped  upon  his  shirt 
front,  and  waggled  helplessly.  Albert  Clegg 
gazed  at  his  daughter  long  and  fixedly.  Then  he 
pulled  the  Bible  towards  him  again,  and  turned 
back  a  page  or  two  in  the  family  record.  He 
twisted  the  great  volume  round,  and  pushed  it  in 
his  daughter's  direction  and  pointed. 

"  Look  at  that,"  he  said. 

Marjorie  looked.  Upon  the  page  of  births, 
near  the  bottom  of  the  list  of  her  father's  brothers 
and  sisters,  she  saw  a  horizontal  black  strip  — 
perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  inch  high  —  extending 
the  full  width  of  the  page,  where  an  entry  in  the 
record  had  been  crossed  out  again,  and  again,  and 
again,  by  a  thick  quill  pen.  She  had  seen  it  before, 
and  had  asked  what  it  meant — without  success. 
Now  apparently  she  was  to  know. 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  45 

"  That,"  said  Albert  Clegg,  "  was  my  youngest 
sister." 

"  Your  Aunt  Eliza,"  added  Uncle  Fred. 

"When  she  was  nineteen,"  continued  Clegg, 
"  she  ran  away  from  home — to  go  on  the  Stage." 

"Hoo!  Where?"  asked  Marjorie,  intensely 
interested. 

"  London,  my  father  thought ;  but  he  never 
enquired." 

"  He  never —  ?    You  mean —  ? " 

"  He  blotted  her  name  out  of  the  Book,  and  it 
was  never  mentioned  in  our  home  again." 

"  And  not  one  of  you  ever  tried  to  find  what 
had  become  of  her  ? " 

"  Certainly  not." 

Marjorie  looked  up  at  her  father  and  drew  a 
long  and  indignant  breath. 

"Well—!"  she  began. 

"  And  now,"  explained  Uncle  Fred,  "  it's  com- 
ing out  in  you,  my  girl." 

What  was  coming  out  Marjorie  did  not  trouble 
him  to  explain.  It  is  doubtful  if  she  heard  him 
at  aU. 

"You  mean  to  say,"  she  said  hotly  to  her 
father,  "that  your  father  let  his  own  daughter 
go  right  out  of  sight  and  mind,  just  like  that  ? " 

"  He  did.     And  I  want  to  say  to  you,  my 


46  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

daughter,  that  I  think  he  was  right.  This  life  is 
a  preparation  for  the  next.  As  we  live  now,  so 
shall  we  be  rewarded  hereafter.  A  few  years' 
empty  pleasure  and  excitement  are  a  poor  ex- 
change for  an  eternity  of  punishment." 

"  That's  right !  Take  no  risks  1"  recommended 
the  sage  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  "  Safety 
first ! " 

"  The  wisest  life,"  concluded  Mr.  Clegg, "  is  the 
safe  life.  The  safe  life  is  the  Christian  life,  and 
the  sure  foundation  of  the  Christian  life  is  family 
life — united,  wisely  controlled,  family  life.  So 
you  will  stay  at  home  and  live  that  life  ;  and 
some  day  you  will  be  grateful.  Now  go  to  bed. 
I  appreciate  your  honesty  in  telling  me  what  is  in 
your  mind,  but  my  advice  to  you  is  forget  all 
about  it.  Good-night ! " 

"  Don't  forget  your  prayers  ! "  added  Uncle 
Fred. 

in 

MARJORIE  finished  her  breakfast  without  further 
flippancy,  and  in  due  course  the  family  set  out  for 
church  in  the  Rolls-Royce.  That  is  to  say,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Clegg,  Uncle  Fred,  Marjorie,  and  the 
younger  children — Miss  Amy,  already  men- 
tioned, and  Masters  James  and  John,  aged  ten 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  47 

and  eight  —  were  packed  into  that  spacious  vehicle 
and  driven  into  Craigf  oot,  with  meticulous  obser- 
vation of  the  speed  limit  and  all  the  windows  up. 
Amos  and  Joe  followed  in  the  two-seater.  The 
servants  had  the  waggonette. 

The  parish  kirk  at  Craigfoot  has  already  been 
described  in  some  detail,  but  it  may  be  worth  while 
to  record  a  few  observations  made  from  a  different 
angle. 

From  her  seat  against  the  wall  in  the  high-cur- 
tained Netherby  pew  Marjorie  could  see  nothing 
but  the  last  few  rows  of  the  public  gallery  and  the 
Baronrigg  balcony.  The  latter  fascinated  her,  for 
it  was  always  full  —  usually  of  interesting,  and  al- 
ways of  different,  people.  Sir  Thomas  Birnie 
himself  was  a  permanent  figure.  He  sat  in  the 
left-hand  corner  of  the  balcony,  at  the  end  nearest 
the  pulpit.  Consequently,  his  severe  gaze,  concen- 
trated upon  the  preacher,  was  averted  from  the 
other  occupants  of  the  pew — a  circumstance  par- 
ticularly agreeable  to  some  of  the  younger  mem- 
bers of  his  numerous  house  parties.  What  fun 
they  seemed  to  have  among  themselves !  How  they 
giggled  and  whispered!  Marjorie  longed  and 
longed  to  be  with  them  and  of  them,  especially  the 
girls  of  her  own  age.  They  were  so  pretty,  so  over- 
flowing with  life,  and  dressed  so  exactly  right. 


48  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

For  three  months,  ever  since  she  came  back  from 
Paris  to  find  her  family  at  Netherby ,  and  the  com- 
fortable hospitality  of  a  Newcastle  suburb  ex- 
changed for  the  frigid  waiting-list  of  a  county  so- 
ciety where  one  knew  either  everybody  or  nobody, 
she  had  taken  weekly  notes  of  the  ever-changing 
kaleidoscope  in  the  Baronrigg  pew — studying 
faces,  studying  frocks,  studying  characters,  and 
weaving  histories  round  each. 

Some  of  the  faces  were  quite  familiar.  This 
morning,  for  instance,  in  the  right-hand  corner  of 
the  front  row,  sat  Major  Laing.  He  was  a  fre- 
quent visitor  at  Baronrigg,  and  was  a  widower. 
Marjorie  knew  that  his  wife  had  been  a  twin-sister 
of  the  late  Lady  Birnie.  Then  there  were  Captain 
and  Mrs.  Roper.  Captain  Roper  owned  horses, 
and  was  here — in  fact,  the  whole  house-party  was 
here  —  for  the  Castleton  Races,  the  largest  meet- 
ing on  this  side  of  the  Border.  They  were  constant 
visitors.  Then  there  was  a  pretty  little  woman  in 
a  big  hat  —  Mrs.  Pomeroy,  really — of  which 
Marjorie  took  mental  and  quite  unsabbatical 
note.  There  was  Arthur  Langley,  one  of  the  best- 
known  gentlemen  riders  in  England.  There  was 
a  tall  girl  with  fair  hair — not  unlike  Marjorie 
herself.  Marjorie  decided  that  this  girl  was 
dressed  not  quite  right.  She  would  have  been  bet- 


REBELLIOUS  MARJORIE  40 

ter  placed  in  a  fashionable  West-end  church  in 
London  than  in  this  grey,  prim,  Presbyterian  con- 
venticle. Probably  her  first  visit,  Marjorie  de- 
cided. She  would  know  better  next  time. 

Her  shrewd  gaze  passed  on. 

And  then,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  saw 
Roy  Birnie,  home  after  four  months  of  toil  and 
tribulation  at  an  army  crammer's.  He  had  been 
plucked  out  of  Eton  at  Christmas  to  that  end, 
Eton  having  decided  that  it  was  a  case  for  desper- 
ate measures.  Three  months  of  intensive  brain- 
culture  had  not  affected  his  appearance,  which  was 
healthy,  nor  his  snub  nose,  nor  his  cheerful  grin, 
nor  the  slight  curl  in  his  hair,  of  which  his  mother 
had  once  been  so  proud  and  of  which  he  was  still 
so  ashamed.  He  sat  on  the  left  of  Major  Laing, 
his  chin  resting  on  the  pew  ledge,  his  grey  eyes  de- 
voutly closed,  and  his  ebullient  spirits  throttled 
down  until  it  should  please  Doctor  Chirnside  to 
conclude  the  first  prayer.  He  was  exactly  like 
hundreds  of  other  clean-run  Public  School  boys  of 
eighteen.  Marjorie  had  observed  a  dozen  such  in 
that  very  pew  during  the  past  three  months.  But, 
as  already  noted,  she  had  never  seen  Roy. 

That  usually  dependable  organ,  her  heart, 
missed  a  couple  of  beats,  and  she  lowered  her  head 
quickly. 


50  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Presently,  impelled  by  a  power  greater  than 
herself  (or,  indeed,  than  any  of  us) ,  she  lifted  her 
head  and  looked  up  —  only  to  find  that  Roy  was 
gazing  straight  down  upon  her. 

For  the  moment  her  eyes  were  interlocked  with 
his.  Then  suddenly  she  became  aware  of  the  ex- 
pression upon  his  face.  The  result  has  already 
been  described. 

That  evening,  after  prayers,  her  father  mo- 
tioned to  her  to  stay  behind.  When  they  were 
alone,  he  said: 

"  I  hope  you  have  given  up  that  idea  of  yours 
about  going  away." 

"Well,"  replied  his  daughter  pleasantly,  "I 
have  postponed  it,  anyhow,  father." 

"You  have  decided  wisely  for  yourself,"  said 
Mr.  Clegg. 

Marjorie  felt  inclined  to  agree.  But  it  is  just 
possible  that  the  matter  had  been  decided  for  her. 


CHAPTER  III 

DER    TAG 


I  SUPPOSE  I  may  be  forgiven  for  having  felt  a 
trifle  preoccupied  upon  the  first  of  August,  nine- 
teen-fourteen.  Most  people  did.  But  the  Euro- 
pean situation,  desperate  though  it  was,  was  not 
sufficiently  desperate  to  excuse  me  for  forgetting 
that  the  first  Saturday  in  August  is  the  inexorable 
date  of  Lady  Christina's  annual  garden  party  at 
Buckholm.  So  I  blundered  right  into  it. 

I  am  a  methodical  person,  and  I  like  to  do  the 
same  things  at  the  same  seasons.  When  it  comes 
to  revisiting  the  place  of  my  birth,  marriage  and, 
I  hope,  interment,  I  make  a  practice  of  going  to 
Baronrigg  for  Easter,  Buckholm  for  the  August 
cricket  week,  and  The  Heughs  for  the  woodcock. 
On  this  particular  occasion  I  had  travelled  from 
King's  Cross  by  the  early  morning  express — it 
leaves  at  five  o'clock,  and  is  the  best  train  in  the 
day,  if  only  people  knew  about  it — with  the  result 
that  by  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  I  found  my- 
self rumbling  along  in  the  Craigf  oot  station  fly,  in 
lovely,  summer  weather,  en  route  for  the  Buck- 


52  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

holm  cricket  week.  Lady  Christina,  whose  foes 
—  and  their  name  is  legion,  for  they  are  many  — 
accuse  her  of  parsimony,  does  not  usually  send  the 
motor  to  the  station  to  meet  unencumbered  males. 
She  expects  such  guests  to  cover  the  last  stage  of 
the  journey  at  their  own  charges  and,  in  addition, 
to  share  the  conveyance  with  such  parcels  and 
oddments  as  may  be  lying  in  the  station  office  con- 
signed to  Buckholm. 

On  this  occasion  Mr.  Turnbull,  the  station  mas- 
ter, apologetically  packed  me  into  the  fly  in  com- 
pany with  half  a  sheep  and  three  bright  new  zinc 
buckets,  freshly  arrived  from  the  stores  in  Edin- 
burgh. 

In  addition  to  my  personal  luggage,  I  was  laden 
with  a  limp,  damp  package,  smelling  to  heaven  of 
fish,  which  had  borne  me  noisome  company  all  the 
way  from  my  flat  in  Jermyn  Street,  having  been 
delivered  there  by  an  accomplice  of  Lady  Chris- 
tina's the  night  before  my  departure,  with  the  in- 
formation that  her  ladyship  had  signified  my  will- 
ingness to  convey  it  to  Buckholm. 

But  things  might  have  been  worse.  Lady  Chris- 
tina had  played  this  fish  trick  upon  me  last  year 
as  well.  ( It  is  one  of  her  most  cherished  econo- 
mies. )  On  that  occasion  the  fish  was  delivered  at 
my  flat  five  minutes  after  I  had  left  for  Scotland. 


DER  TAG  53 

It  was  marked  "Very  Important" ;  so  the  lift  boy, 
a  conscientious  but  unimaginative  youth,  sent  for 
the  pass-key  and  carefully  deposited  the  package 
in  my  hall  cupboard.  I  found  it  there,  quite  safe, 
when  I  returned  from  Scotland,  three  weeks  later. 

The  first  warning  that  all  was  not  well  came  to 
me  when  my  equipage  drew  up,  to  a  symphonic  ac- 
companiment of  rattling  buckets,  at  the  lodge 
gates  of  Buckholm.  These  were  held,  like  the 
bridge  across  the  Tiber  upon  a  famous  occasion, 
by  a  resolute  trio  composed  of  Mackellar,  the  un- 
der-gardener,  and  Mesdames  Elspeth  and  Mag- 
gie Mackellar,  Mackellar's  daughters,  aged  about 
fourteen.  Horatius  Codes  (Mackellar)  informed 
me  that  by  her  ladyship's  orders  it  was  "hauf-a- 
croon  to  get  in,"  adding  (quite  incomprehensibly 
at  the  moment)  that  it  was  "on  account  of  the 
Feet  for  Charity." 

My  contention  that,  as  a  guest,  I  was  entitled  to 
exemption,  or,  at  least,  abatement  of  entrance  fee, 
was  overruled  by  a  dour  but  respectful  majority 
of  three  to  one.  I  handed  Horatius  Codes  a  re- 
luctant half-crown ;  Herminius  and  Spurius  Lar- 
tius  threw  open  the  gates,  and  the  experienced 
animal  between  the  shafts,  unusually  braced  by 
the  eerie  combination  of  sounds  and  smells  con- 
veyed to  his  senses  by  a  following  breeze,  delivered 


54  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

me  at  the  front  door,  with  much  spurting  of  gravel, 
four  minutes  later. 

My  worst  fears  were  realised.  Dotted  about 
the  wide  lawns  stood  bazaar-stalls,  under  striped 
awnings.  The  band  of  our  Third  Battalion  from 
the  Depot  was  making  music  on  the  terrace,  and 
fair  women  and  brave  men  drifted  here  and  there, 
shying  nervously  at  the  stalls.  Too  late,  I  under- 
stood Mackellar's  reference  to  the  "Feet  for 
Charity."  I  had  heard  from  afar  of  the  existence 
of  this  recurrent  and  gruesome  festival  for  many 
years.  No  one  knew  why  it  was  held,  or  to  what 
charity  Lady  Christina  devoted  the  proceeds.  I 
once  asked  Lord  Eskerley  if  he  could  tell  me.  He 
replied  that  so  far  as  he  was  aware  it  was  a  charity 
which  was  not  puffed  up,  and  began  at  home.  But 
Lord  Eskerley  is  a  cynical  old  gentleman,  and  has 
been  at  war  with  Lady  Christina  for  forty  years. 

A  sympathetic  butler  received  me  and  showed 
me  my  room.  The  ceremony  was  purely  formal : 
I  knew  the  room  almost  as  well  as  I  knew  him. 

"  It  will  go  on  until  ten  o'clock,  sir,"  he  an- 
nounced mournfully,  in  reply  to  my  anxious 
query.  "  The  present  company  will  leave  about 
seven;  but  the  townspeople  begin  to  arrive  then, 
when  the  admission  fee  is  reduced  to  sixpence. 
Are  we  going  to  have  a  flare-up,  sir  ? " 


DER  TAG  55 

"No.  What's  the  use?  We  shall  take  it  lying 
down,  Bates,  as  usual.  You  know  Lady  Chris- 
tina!" 

"I  was  referring,  sir,  to  the  European  situa- 
tion." 

"Oh,  sorry!  Yes,  it  looks  like  it.  If  Germany 
joins  Austria  against  Russia,  France  is  bound  to 
come  in  on  the  side  of  Russia;  and  if  France  comes 
in  I  fancy  we  shall  all  come  in.  And  then  God 
knows  what  will  happen !  Is  there  much  excite- 
ment down  here?" 

"  Very  little  at  present,  sir  —  less  than  when  the 
South  African  War  was  imminent.  But  I  under- 
stand that  all  the  officers  at  the  Depot  are  being 
recalled  from  leave.  You  will  find  several  of  them 
here,  sir." 

"  Mr.  Eric  is  here,  of  course  ? " 

"  For  the  afternoon,  sir,  yes.  But  he  sleeps  at 
the  Depot  now.  He  is  very  busy.  You  will 
change  into  flannels,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes." 

"  It  will  fill  out  the  time  a  bit,  sir,  before  you 
need  go  outside.  Her  Ladyship  is  not  aware  of 
your  arrival.  Shall  I  bring  you  a  whisky  and 
soda?" 

"Please." 

By  judicious  dawdling  I  staved  off  the  moment 


56  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

of  my  entrance  into  the  "  Feet "  for  another  half- 
hour.  Then,  fortified  by  Bates's  timely  refresh- 
ment, I  went  downstairs  to  search  for  my  hostess. 

The  garden  was  full  of  people  —  sirens  in  lace 
caps  proffering  useless  articles  of  merchandise; 
officers  from  the  Depot;  boys  and  girls  just  home 
for  the  holidays;  local  dames  talking  scandal  in 
deck-chairs.  Upon  the  distant  croquet  lawn  I  be- 
held my  hostess  engaged  in  battle.  I  could  hear 
her  quite  easily,  shouting:  "Now  then — no 
treachery,  no  treachery!"  to  her  partner,  a  ner- 
vous subaltern  who  was  furtively  offering  advice 
to  a  pretty  opponent.  I  remembered  Bates's  hint, 
also  a  maxim  to  the  effect  that  what  is  not  missed 
is  not  mourned.  Perhaps  it  would  be  wiser — 

"Yes,  I  would  if  I  were  you,"  remarked  a 
raven's  voice  at  my  elbow.  "  She  hasn't  seen  you 
yet!" 

Lord  Eskerley  is  a  very  remarkable  old  gentle- 
man, with  certain  pronounced  and  rather  alarm- 
ing characteristics.  In  the  first  place,  he  has  an 
uncanny  knack  of  reading  one's  thoughts,  which 
enables  him  to  begin  a  conversation  without  wast- 
ing time  over  preliminaries,  which  he  hates.  Sec- 
ondly, he  has  a  peculiar  habit  of  side-tracking  a 
subject  right  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  some- 
times because  he  is  overtaken  by  a  reverie,  some- 


DER  TAG  57 

times  because  another  subject  occurs  to  him — 
to  return  sooner  or  later,  but  always  without 
warning,  to  the  original  topic — like  brackets  in 
algebra.  I  once  met  him  coming  out  of  Brooks's 
Club,  and  accompanied  him  down  St.  James's 
Street. 

"Just  been  to  a  funeral,"  he  announced;  and 
forthwith  subsided  into  a  brown  study. 

I  offered  a  few  appropriate  observations  re- 
garding the  uncertainty  of  human  life,  and  then 
proceeded  to  the  political  situation.  He  replied 
with  his  usual  incisiveness.  Ten  minutes  later,  as 
we  passed  through  the  Horse  Guards  into  White- 
hall, he  stopped  abruptly,  shook  me  by  the  hand, 
and  said : 

"Good-bye!  At  Woking.  We  cremated  him. 
Very  interesting  1"  —  and  set  off  at  a  brisk  walk 
in  the  direction  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament. 

These  conversational  acrobatics  call  for  consid- 
erable agility  on  the  part  of  the  listener.  The 
strain  is  increased  by  the  circumstance  that,  owing 
to  his  uncanny  powers  of  memory,  Lord  Eskerley 
is  able  (and  usually  proceeds)  to  take  up  a  con- 
versation with  you  exactly  where  he  left  it  off, 
sometimes  after  an  interval  of  months.  I  was  once 
walking  in  the  Park  on  Sunday  morning  with 
Lady  Christina,  whom  I  had  encountered  for  my; 


58  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

sins  after  church.  Near  the  Achilles  statue  I  was 
aware  of  Lord  Eskerley,  plunged  in  profound 
meditation.  Suddenly  he  looked  up  and  saw  me. 
He  hurried  forward  and  shook  hands,  utterly  ig- 
noring Lady  Christina. 

"  Courvoisier,"  he  said,  "  not  Martell!  "  —  and 
departed  towards  Stanhope  Gate. 

"  What  does  the  demented  creature  mean? "  in- 
quired Lady  Christina. 

I  was  able  to  explain  that  His  Lordship  had 
merely  been  unburdening  himself  of  a  name  which 
he  had  been  unable  to  recall  at  the  time  of  our 
last  conversation.  Criminology  is  one  of  his 
numerous  hobbies,  and  on  this  occasion  he  had 
been  trying  to  tell  me  the  name  of  one  of  the 
last  murderers  publicly  hanged  in  England. 
(Thackeray  went  to  see  it.)  All  he  could  recall, 
however,  was  that  the  murderer  had  been  a  valet 
in  Park  Lane,  and  that  his  name  had  suggested 
liqueur  brandy. 

Decidedly  he  is  a  character.  But  he  is  a  Pillar 
of  State  for  all  that,  and,  unlike  some  Pillars  of 
State,  he  has  done  the  State  some  service.  He 
likes  me,  because  I  catch  his  references  more 
quickly  than  most  people. 

"  Well,"  I  rejoined,  "  suppose  you  assist  me  to 
find  cover?" 


DER  TAG  5d 

"  Certainly ! "  he  replied.  "  By  the  way  "  —  ex- 
tending a  hand  —  " how  do  you  do?  Wonderful 
day!  Now  come  and  find  a  seat,  and  we  will 
smoke." 

We  doubled  a  promontory  of  rhododendrons 
and  sat  down  on  a  rustic  bench,  somewhat  apart 
from  the  turmoil.  The  only  person  in  sight  was 
a  girl,  with  very  good  ankles.  (Eve  always  re- 
proved me  for  beginning  at  that  end. )  She  was 
standing  fifty  yards  away  from  us,  under  the 
dappled  shade  of  a  copper-beech,  surveying  the 
scene  —  a  little  disconsolately,  I  thought.  My 
companion,  as  usual,  was  ready  with  an  appropri- 
ate but  elliptic  comment. 

"  Doesn't  know  he's  here! "  he  observed. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  her  ? "  I  asked. 

"  No  need.    They'll  find  one  another  all  right." 

"Who  is  she?    And  he?" 

The  question  partly  answered  itself,  for  at  that 
moment  the  girl  turned  in  our  direction,  and  I 
recognised  her  as  the  unexpected  young  beauty  of 
the  Netherby  pew.  Aware  that  two  inquisitive 
dotards  were  leering  at  her,  she  withdrew  out  of 
sight.  Lord  Eskerley  did  not  answer  the  rest  of 
my  question,  because  his  thoughts  had  run  ahead 
of  the  situation. 

"There  is  something  particularly  cruel  and 


60  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

brutal,"  he  said,  "  about  British  snobbery.  If  this 
had  been  America,  her  hostess  would  have  intro- 
duced her  to  every  one  in  sight.  ( If  she  had  not 
been  prepared  to  do  so,  she  would  not  have  invited 
her  at  all. )  On  the  Continent,  young  men  would 
have  led  one  another  up,  and  clicked  their  heels  to- 
gether, and  announced  their  names,  with  a  view  to 
a  fair  exchange.  But  here — well,  she  knows  no- 
body, and  every  woman  in  the  county  will  see  to 
it  that  she  continues  to  know  nobody.  Practically, 
that  was  why  she  was  invited  here.  Tantalus,  and 
so  on  I" 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  I  said,  "why  we 
never  go  in  for  introducing.  It  would  save  much 
discomfort  to  rustic  persons  like  myself." 

"  I'll  tell  you.  Roughly,  our  attitude  is  this. 
There  are  only  a  certain  number  of  people  in  this 
world  who  are  anybody — Us,  in  fact.  You  are 
either  one  of  Us,  or  you  are  not.  If  you  are,  ob- 
viously there  is  no  need  to  introduce  you.  If  you 
are  not — well,  an  introduction  would  imply  that 
you  are  not  one  of  Us!  So  it  is  almost  more  in- 
sulting to  introduce  people  than  to  ignore  them. 
Very  ingenious  system :  I  wonder  what  woman  in- 
vented it!  Still,  she's  all  right."  (Apparently 
His  Lordship  had  switched  back  to  the  girl  again. ) 
"  She  and  her  mother  only  get  invited  to  Gather- 


DER  TAG  61 

'em- Alls  and  Charity  Sales-of-Work,  but  most  of 
the  boys  have  managed  to  scrape  acquaintance 
with  her  by  this  time.  She  fairly  bowled  them 
over  at  the  Third  Battalion  Gymkhana  a  few 
weeks  ago.  Looked  a  picture ;  won  first  prize  for 
the  motor  obstacle  race  ;  and  fairly  had  to  keep 
subalterns  off  with  a  stick !  And  at  least  one  field 
officer!" 

"  You  seem  to  have  taken  considerable  notice 
of  her,"  I  observed. 

"  I  take  considerable  notice  of  most  things,"  re- 
plied the  old  gentleman  complacently,  "even 
pretty  girls.  By  Jhe  way,  we  are  going  to  fight 
them." 

"The  girls?" 

"God forbid!  Germany!" 

"Oh!" 

"Yes.  I  go  back  to  town  to-night.  There  seems 
little  doubt  now  that  we  shall  come  in.  We  can't 
leave  France  in  the  lurch.  For  one  thing,  we 
should  be  skunks  if  we  did"  —  Pillars  of  State 
can  be  surprisingly  colloquial  in  private  life  — 
"  and  for  another,  Germany  means  to  gobble  the 
whole  of  Europe  this  time,  including  this  pacific 
little  island  of  ours.  It  would  be  playing  Ger- 
many's game  to  allow  her  to  take  us  on  one  after 
another,  instead  of  all  together.  Of  course,  the 


62  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

peace-at-any-price  crowd  are  yowling;  but — if 
we  don't  back  our  friends  on  this  occasion,  we  can 
never  hold  up  our  heads  again.  It  is  just  possible 
that  the  Germans  may  be  fools  enough  to  invade 
Belgium,  in  which  case  even  the  Cocoa  Eaters  and 
the  Intellectuals  will  have  to  stop  supporting 
them.  But  I  think  we  shall  fight  anyhow.  It  will 
be  a  short  war,  but  it  will  be  the  bloodiest  war  ever 
fought." 

"  Why  do  you  think  it  will  be  short  ? " 
"  Because  it  will  be  so  expensive  in  money  and 
men  that  no  country  will  be  able  to  stand  the 
racket  for  longer  than  a  few  months.  Modern 
weapons  are  so  destructive,  and  modern  warfare 
costs  so  much,  that  before  we  know  where  we  are 
one  side  will  all  be  dead  and  the  other  side  bank- 
rupt ;  so  we  shall  have  to  stop !  The  South  African 
affair  cost  us  a  quarter  of  a  million  a  day,  while  it 
lasted.  This  enterprise  may  run  us  into  two,  or 
even  three  millions.  Think  of  that !  Twenty  mil- 
lions a  week !  A  thousand  millions  a  year !  We 
can't  do  it!  Neither  can  France!  Neither  can 
Germany!  No,  it  will  be  a  short  war.  I  am  bound 
to  admit  K.  of  K.  doesn't  agree  with  me.  He  puts 
it  at  three  years.  I  lunched  with  him  two  days 
ago.  He  was  getting  ready  to  go  back  to  Egypt 
then — sorely  against  the  grain,  naturally;  but  it 


DER  TAG  63 

did  not  seem  to  have  occurred  to  anybody  to  tell 
him  to  hold  back  for  a  week  or  two.  We  can't 
allow  him  to  go  out  of  the  country  at  present ;  the 
thing's  preposterous !  Let  me  see,  where  was  I  ? " 

"  Lunching  with  K." 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  said  three  years.  I  asked  why, 
and  he  replied  that  before  this  war  finished  every 
single  able-bodied  man  of  the  combatant  nations 
would  be  fighting  in  a  national  army,  and  it  would 
take  three  years  for  this  country  to  put  its  full 
strength  into  the  field.  But  of  course  K.  doesn't 
understand  economic  conditions.  He's  our  great- 
est soldier,  but  not  an  economist.  Still,  that's 
K.'s  view.  I  don't  agree  with  it,  but  it's  K.'s  view. 
And  if  we  go  to  war,  K.  will  probably  lead  us ;  so 
we  must  expect  to  provide  for  war  on  K.'s  scale." 

All  this  was  sufficiently  stunning  and  bewilder- 
ing in  its  suddenness  and  immensity ;  but  it 
aroused  my  professional  instincts. 

"  How  is  K.  going  to  set  about  creating  such  an 
army? "  I  asked.  "  Raise  supplementary  Regular 
battalions ;  expand  the  Territorial  establishment ; 
or  what?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  knows  himself.  In  fact,  he 
said  so,  quite  frankly.  In  the  first  place,  he 
hasn't  been  invited  to  help,  as  yet.  In  the  second, 
he  has  been  absent  from  England  for  the  best 


64  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

part  of  fourteen  years,  and  has  not  been  able  to 
keep  himself  conversant  with  the  recent  orgy  of 
Army  reform.  He  knew  that  the  old  Militia  had 
been  scrapped,  but  I  found  he  was  not  sure 
whether  its  place  had  been  taken  by  the  Special 
Reserve  or  the  National  Reserve.  And,  of  course, 
like  all  Regulars,  he  regards  the  Territorials  with 
the  utmost  distrust.  I  think  he  shares  the  general 
soldier-man's  opinion  that  the  '  Terriers '  are  the 
old  Saturday  afternoon  crowd  with  a  new  label. 
His  idea  seems  to  be  to  take  no  risks  with  amateur 
organisations,  but  to  create  a  pukka  new  profes- 
sional army  on  regular  lines.  He's  wrong.  He 
should  take  the  present  Territorial  Army  as  a 
nucleus,  and  expand  from  that.  The  Territorial 
Associations  are  a  most  capable  lot,  and  would 
build  up  big  units  for  him  in  no  time.  Still,  what- 
evfer"  way  he  does  it,  he  will  do  it  well;  he's  our 
great  man.  And  he*will  need  all  his  greatness. 
Germany  means  to  smash  us  this  time.  She  has 
been  calling  up  her  reservists,  on  the  quiet,  for  the 
last  six  months.  Her  intelligence  people  have  told 
her  that  we  are  all  so  tied  up  with  the  Suffragettes 
and  Ireland  that  we  can't  come  in,  and  that  if  we 
do,  we  cannot  put  up  anything  of  a  fight.  I  am 
almost  tempted  to  believe  Germany  is  right.  I 
don't  suppose  we  have  a  thousand  spare  rifles  in 


DER  TAG  65 

the  country.  As  for  artillery — it  takes  three 
years  to  make  a  gunner !  How  on  earth  — ' ' 

"  Now,  then,  what  are  you  two  absurd  creatures 
conspiring  about?"  Our  hostess  was  upon  us 
brandishing  a  croquet-mallet.  We  rose  hurriedly. 
"Alan  Laing,  how  do  you  do?  Why  didn't  you 
come  and  tell  me  you  had  arrived?  As  for  you, 
Eskerley,  I  think  you  are  getting  into  your  second 
childhood.  What's  all  this  nonsense  I  hear  about 
war  with  Germany  ?  Why,  I  have  a  signed  photo- 
graph of  the  Emperor  in  my  drawing-room!  How 
can  one  make  war  on  people  like  that  ?  And  yet 
there  you  sit,  talking  about  the  thing  as  if  it  were 
really  possible,  and  disorganising  my  fete  cham- 
petre  by  mobilising  all  my  young  men !  Come  and 
play  croquet!" 

Croquet  with  Lady  Christina  resembles  nothing 
so  much  as  croquet  with  the  Queen  in  "  Alice  in 
Wonderland."  It  is  true  that  she  does  not  order 
our  heads  to  be  chopped  off,  but  one  sometimes 
wishes  she  would,  and  be  done  with  it.  Her  suc- 
cess at  the  game — and  she  is  invariably  successful 
—  is  due  partly  to  the  nervous  paralysis  of  her 
opponents,  and  partly  to  the  uncanny  property 
possessed  by  her  ball  of  removing  itself,  while  its 
owner  is  engaged  in  altercation,  to  a  position  ex- 
actly opposite  its  hoop.  I  bent  my  steps  dutifully 


66  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

towards  the  lawn,  leaving  Lord  Eskerley,  who 
fears  no  one,  not  even  Lady  Christina,  to  fight  a 
spirited  rearguard  action  with  that  worthy  op- 
ponent. 

On  the  way  I  encountered  Eric  Bethune,  my 
friend.  It  always  thrills  me,  even  at  my  sober  age, 
to  encounter  Eric  suddenly.  I  have  never  got  over 
my  boyish  tendency  to  hero-worship.  We  shook 
hands. 

"  Come  along  the  Green  Walk  with  me,"  he 
said.  "  My  car  is  waiting  at  the  West  Lodge;  I 
have  to  fly  back  to  my  orderly  room." 

"  We  seem  to  be  fairly  for  it,  this  time,"  I  said, 
as  we  strode  along  the  avenue  of  grass. 

Eric  threw  up  his  handsome  head  exultantly. 
The  sloping  sunlight  caught  his  clean-cut  profile 
and  sinewy  throat. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "we're  for  it!  The  Fleet  has 
been  ordered  not  to  disperse  after  Manoeuvres. 
The  Army  is  mobilising.  We  are  going  to  have 
at  them  at  last !  It's  '  Der  Tag,'  all  right !  You 
are  coming  back  to  us,  I  suppose,  Alan? " 

"  If  they  will  have  me,"  I  said. 

"Have  you?  They '11  jump  at  you!  They'll 
give  you  a  battalion  !  We  shall  all  get  battalions  ! 
Brigades,  perhaps!"  He  laughed  joyfully,  like 
a  schoolboy  who  sees  his  first  eleven  colours  ahead. 
"  There  will  be  promotions  all  round  —  " 


DER  TAG  67 

"  In  a  month  or  two,"  I  said  soberly,  "  there 
will  be  a  lot  more." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Eric.  "  We  may 
finish  Fritz  off  in  one  big  battle.  The  German 
soldier  is  a  machine :  so  is  his  officer.  The  whole 
German  Army  is  a  machine." 

"  A  damned  efficient  machine,  too ! "  I  observed. 

"Yes,  boy;  but  cumbrous,  cumbrous!  If  we 
let  it  get  into  its  swing,  it  will  be  hard  to  stop. 
But  we  won't.  The  little  British  Army  —  and 
mind  you,  as  a  result  of  its  South  African  lessons, 
it  is  the  best  trained,  the  best  led,  and  the  finest 
body  of  men  that  we  have  ever  put  into  the  field 
in  all  our  history — will  get  the  first  move  on,  and 
it  will  chuck  itself,  like  a  flinty  little  pebble,  plumb 
in  the  middle  of  the  German  machinery,  and  put 
all  its  gadgets  out  of  gear !  After  that,  the  Ger- 
man, with  his  entire  lack  of  initiative,  will  go  to 
pieces,  and  we'll  eat  him  up ! " 

Eric's  old  Scottish  nurse  was  accustomed  to  say 
of  him  that  he  was  "  aye  up  in  the  cloods  or  doon 
in  the  midden."  There  was  no  mistaking  his 
whereabouts  to-day.  I  began  to  feel  the  thrill  too. 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  the  First  Battalion? " 
I  asked. 

"No  word  of  it  as  yet.  My  orders  are  to  stay 
here  and  perfect  mobilisation  arrangements.  The 


68  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

moment  the  word  goes  out  from  the  jolly  old  War 
Office,  we  shall  be  swamped  with  reservists:  we 
may  have  to  start  a  recruiting  station  as  well. 
Great  work!  Great  work!  So  long,  old  son!  Run 
home  and  polish  your  buttons ! " 

He  leaped  into  his  car,  and  disappeared  in  a 
cloud  of  dust — a  most  characteristic  embodiment 
of  the  spirit  that  was  flaming  in  the  hearts  of  all 
the  youth  of  England  and  Scotland  during  that 
hectic,  unforgettable,  blissfully  ignorant  week. 

I  walked  slowly  back  down  the  Green  Walk, 
prepared  to  serve  my  sentence  on  the  croquet 
lawn.  It  was  a  perfect  summer  evening.  Not  a 
leaf  stirred :  not  a  bird  chirruped.  The  shadow  of 
my  somewhat  square  and  stocky  person  preceded 
me,  flatteringly  elongated  and  attenuated  by  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Deep  and  abiding  peace 
seemed  to  brood  upon  the  land.  Yet  all  the  land, 
I  knew,  was  making  ready  for  battle.  Well,  for 
my  part,  I  was  satisfied.  I  was  a  soldier,  a  widow 
man,  and  a  childless  man.  I  had  no  farewells  to 
make,  no  last  embraces  — 

From  among  the  trees  on  my  right  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  flutter  of  white,  and  a  murmur  of 
yoices.  A  man  and  a  woman  —  no,  no,  in  those 
days  one  still  talked  of  boys  and  girls — were 
seated  side  by  side  on  a  fallen  tree-trunk,  with 


DER  TAG  69 

their  backs  to  me.  They  did  not  appear  to  be  con- 
cerning themselves  with  war,  or  strife,  or  hostili- 
ties of  any  kind.  Their  present  relation,  though 
decorous  enough,  appeared  to  be  one  of  most  cor- 
dial agreement.  I  recognised  them  both,  and 
passed  on  discreetly,  silently  acknowledging  the 
prescience  of  that  aged  but  perspicacious  student 
of  humanity,  my  Lord  of  Eskerley. 

"  They  appear  to  have  found  one  another  all 
right! "  I  said  to  myself. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  TRYST 

I 

MARJORIE  lay  prone  among  the  bracken  in  Craig- 
foot  Wood,  with  her  chin  resting  on  her  hands, 
and  her  insteps  drumming  restlessly  upon  the  cool 
earth.  Below  her  ran  the  road.  To  her  left,  beyond 
the  wooded  ridge  which  gave  its  name  to  Baron- 
rigg,  lay  Craigfoot,  nestling,  like  most  small  Low- 
land townships,  in  its  own  private  valley.  To  her 
right,  out  of  sight  a  mile  away,  ran  the  branch  line 
of  the  railway  which  served  that  district,  and 
which  had  furnished  material  to  local  humourists 
for  a  generation. 

By  the  roadside,  on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  stood 
the  two-seater  car  which  was  accustomed  to  carry 
the  overflow  of  the  Clegg  family  to  church  on 
Sundays,  and  which  Marjorie  liked  to  pretend 
was  her  own  special  property.  She  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  her  arms  were  up  to  the  elbows  in 
gear-box  grease.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  th 
elemental  small  boy  about  Miss  Marjorie. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  the 
month  was  once  more  August.  The  war  which 
was  to  have  been  over  in  a  few  furious  weeks  had 


A  TRYST  71 

now  been  in  progress  for  twelve  months.  The 
memory  of  the  nightmare  campaign  of  the  first 
winter  in  Flanders  had  crystallised  into  a  national 
epic.  And  now  Kitchener's  Army,  having  char- 
acteristically survived  that  chaotic  but  inevitable 
experiment  in  improvisation,  its  preliminary 
training  at  home  during  one  of  the  worst  and 
wettest  winters  ever  known  in  England,  had  gone 
abroad.  Here  it  had  graduated,  with  first  class 
honours  in  endurance  and  cheerfulness,  during  a 
season  of  trench  warfare  on  the  Western  Front  ; 
and  was  now  bracing  itself,  with  incorrigible  op- 
timism, for  that  heroic  mess  afterwards  known  as 
the  Battle  of  Loos.  Everywhere  the  war  was  con- 
solidating its  position.  On  land  the  Boche,  in  a 
determined  effort  to  recoup  himself  for  his  losses 
on  the  Western  swings  by  a  profitable  exploita- 
tion of  the  Eastern  roundabouts,  had  just  cap- 
tured Warsaw ;  and  Hindenburg  and  Ludendorff 
were  gloriously  smashing  their  way  through  Rus- 
sian armies  in  which  perhaps  one  man  in  ten  pos- 
sessed a  rifle.  At  sea,  the  battles  of  the  Falkland 
Islands  and  the  Dogger  Bank  had  confirmed  the 
German  High  Seas  Fleet  in  a  policy  of  watchful 
waiting — not  to  be  broken,  save  for  the  discon- 
certing experiment  of  Jutland,  until  the  final  ab- 
ject excursion  of  surrender  more  than  three  years 


72  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

later.  Submarines  and  Zeppelins  were  beginning 
to  function.  Yarmouth  and  Lowestoft  had  been 
bombed,  with  eclat.  The  Lusitania  had  gone 
down,  with  eleven  hundred  souls;  and  a  certain 
giant  in  the  Far  West  was  beginning  to  come  out 
of  the  ether  administered  by  Teutonic  anaesthe- 
tists. 

At  home,  the  country  had  settled  into  its  stride ; 
and  everyone,  in  camp,  tube,  train,  and  tram, 
argued  —  Heavens!  how  they  did  argue!  —  by  a 
simple  exercise  in  simple  proportion,  that  if  a 
mere  handful  of  British  soldiers  could  hold  back 
overwhelmingly  superior  numbers  for  a  whole 
winter,  what  wouldn't  we  do  to  Germany  when 
the  new  British  Army  found  their  feet  and  got 
busy  with  the  big  push  which  everybody  —  friend 
and  foe,  be  it  said — knew  was  coming  in  Septem- 
ber ?  ( The  possibility  that  the  enemy  might  have 
been  unsportsmanlike  enough  to  raise  a  few  new 
armies  of  his  own  did  not  appear  to  have  occurred 
to  anybody  in  particular.)  The  life  of  the  citizen 
was  still  fairly  normal.  Taxicabs  were  plentiful : 
theatrical  business  was  booming.  One  could  still 
buy  practically  all  that  the  heart  desired,  pro- 
vided one  had  the  price.  The  days  when  every- 
body would  have  money,  but  there  would  be 
nothing  to  buy,  were  yet  to  come. 


A  TRYST  73 

Marjorie's  predominant  emotion  during  the 
first  six  months  of  the  war  had  been  that  of  fierce 
resentment  against  having  been  born  a  girl.  She 
felt  helpless ;  and  whenever  Marjorie  felt  helpless 
it  made  her  angry.  (That  was  why  she  was  so 
frequently  angry  with  her  father. )  All  round  her 
the  youth  of  her  country  were  on  fire,  both  boys 
and  girls.  Yet  the  boys  were  able  to  stream  away 
to  fight,  while  Marjorie,  who  was  quite  as  brave, 
quite  as  vigorous,  and  infinitely  more  capable  of 
leadership  than  many  young  men,  was  debarred 
by  the  accident  of  her  sex  from  doing  anything  at 
all.  In  the  year  nineteen-fifteen  the  great  con- 
flict was  still  regarded  as  a  man's  war :  the  inevit- 
ability of  mobilised  womanhood  had  not  yet  been 
recognised.  The  accepted  theory  was  that  men 
must  work  and  women  must  weep  —  for  the  dura- 
tion. 

The  countryside  was  full  of  soldiers,  in  all 
stages  of  growth.  Marjorie  used  to  encounter 
whole  columns  of  them,  route  marching — strange 
creatures,  clothed  in  apparel  which  by  no  stretch 
of  imagination  could  be  described  as  uniform. 
But  for  all  their  fantastic  blends  of  khaki  and 
tweed,  glengarry  and  billycock,  Marjorie's  heart 
warmed  to  them.  They  were  so  boisterous,  so 
childlike,  so  absolutely  certain  of  what  was  going 


74  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

to  happen  to  the  Boche  when  they  got "  oot  there." 
At  their  head,  as  often  as  not,  rode  Major 
Bethune.  He  and  Marjorie  had  become  ac- 
quainted under  circumstances  which  will  be  re- 
corded hereafter,  and  his  punctilious  salute  never 
failed  to  thrill  her.  He  was  an  inspiring  figure, 
and  conspicuously  solitary  in  his  present  entour- 
age. He  alone  was  left  of  all  the  cheery,  careless 
brotherhood  who  had  pursued  the  unexacting 
peace-time  existence  of  a  regular  soldier  at  the  de- 
pot of  the  Royal  Covenanters — the  prop  and 
mainstay  of  every  covert-shoot  and  tennis-party 
in  the  county.  They  were  all  in  France  now. 
Many  of  them  would  never  come  back.  But  Eric 
Bethune  remained,  to  lick  recruits  into  shape  — 
with  astonishing  speed  and  efficiency,  be  it  said 
—  and  send  them  out,  draft  after  draft,  to  stiffen 
the  ever-thinning  ranks  of  the  First  and  Second 
Battalions.  He  hated  being  kept  at  home,  and 
said  so.  Marjorie  sympathised  with  him  deeply, 
for  she  knew  exactly  how  he  felt.  One  day  she 
told  him  so.  After  that,  Eric  took  considerable 
notice  of  her.  He  had  the  simple  vanity  of  a 
spoiled  child,  and  reacted  promptly  to  all  those 
who  took  especially  deferential  notice  of  him. 

The  pair  met  here  and  there  —  at  Buckholm, 
whither  Marjorie  was  sometimes  bidden  with  her 


A  TRYST  75 

mother  to  war  relief  committee  meetings;  at  en- 
tertainments organised  for  the  recruits ;  at  cross- 
roads, where  Marjorie's  two-seater  was  fre- 
quently hung  up  by  columns  of  marching  men. 
On  these  occasions  they  exchanged  greetings  — 
even  confidences.  Eric  was  more  than  twenty 
years  Marjorie's  senior  —  a  circumstance  which, 
if  anything,  heightened  their  attraction  for  one 
another.  It  gratified  Eric  hugely  to  find  himself 
frankly  admired  by  a  young  girl ;  while  Mar jorie, 
born  hero-worshipper  that  she  was,  felt  pleasantly 
thrilled  at  attracting  the  appreciative  attention 
of  a  man  so  distinguished  in  his  record  and  so 
much  more  important  than  herself.  Also,  Eric's 
great  age  —  and  to  twenty,  forty-three  and  in- 
finity are  very  much  the  same  thing — made  him 
"safe."  Fortunately  for  Eric's  self-esteem,  he 
did  not  know  this. 

They  had  small  chance  to  become  really  in- 
timate. There  were  few  opportunities  for  social 
amenity  in  those  days,  and  such  as  survived  hardly 
covered  Netherby  at  all.  In  that  bleak  household 
itself  opinion  on  the  war  was  sharply  divided. 
Albert  Clegg  came  of  a  stock  which  had  been  edu- 
cated to  regard  war  as  a  luxury  of  the  upper 
classes.  He  believed  that  all  wars  were  started 
by  collusion  between  the  "military  oligarchy" 


76  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

and  the  armament  firms.  He  maintained  that  no 
war  had  ever  been  fought  which  could  not  have 
been  avoided.  The  sight  of  a  uniform  filled  hirn 
with  horror.  He  was  eloquent — though  not  quite 
so  fluent  as  Uncle  Fred — upon  the  iniquity  of 
placing  what  he  called  a  "musket"  upon  the 
shoulder  of  a  growing  boy,  and  setting  him  for 
a  period  of  three  years  to  strengthen  his  body  by 
martial  exercises,  when  he  might  have  been  earn- 
ing dividends  for  somebody.  Finally,  he  said  that 
the  Germans  were  an  industrious,  peace-loving, 
musical  nation,  and  that  it  was  sinful  to  attack  — 
by  which  it  is  to  be  presumed  he  meant  resist 
—  an  army  which  was  merely  the  involuntary  in- 
strument of  despotism. 

So  when  the  British  nation  declined,  by  accla- 
mation, to  break  faith  with  France  and  Belgium, 
Albert  Clegg  was  sincerely  depressed.  Moreover, 
being  deeply  interested  in  shipping,  he  foresaw 
ruin  for  the  overseas  trade  of  the  country.  Even 
when  the  unforeseen  happened ;  when,  as  the  sub- 
marines began  to  take  toll,  the  market  value  of 
tramp  steamers  shot  up  a  thousand  per  cent.,  and 
freights  soared  out  of  sight  altogether,  he  was  not 
entirely  comforted.  ,  According  to  his  lights  he 
was  an  honest  man,  and  it  was  with  a  twinge  of 
conscience  that  he  found  the  war  accumulating 


A  TRYST  77 

for  him  profits  on  a  scale  which  not  even  a  swelling 
income-tax  could  altogether  moderate.  But  he 
compounded  with  his  conscience  in  the  end.  He 
drew  his  profits,  but  he  drew  them  under  formal 
protest  every  time.  As  Pooh  Bah  once  explained, 
"  It  revolts  me,  but  I  do  it! " 

Of  the  rest  of  the  household,  Mrs.  Clegg  for  her 
part  found  the  war  almost  pleasantly  exhilarat- 
ing. None  of  her  kith  and  kin  were  participating 
in  hostilities,  which  relieved  her  from  such  trifling 
cares  as  beset  old  Mrs.  Couper,  who  was  interested 
in  the  matter  to  the  extent  of  five  sons  and  four- 
teen grandsons;  or  Mrs.  Gillespie,  the  banker's 
wife,  who  had  contributed  all  she  had,  the  ci- 
devant  student  of  divinity,  to  the  cause ;  or  Gen- 
eral Bothwell,  whose  son  Jack  had  arrived  in 
Flanders  from  India  with  his  Pathans  in  early 
December,  and  had  already  met  the  almost  inevit- 
able end  of  a  white  officer  who  undertakes  the  con- 
spicuous task  of  leading  dusky  troops  into  action 
under  modern  conditions  ;  or  Lord  Eskerley,  both 
of  whose  sons  had  died  at  Le  Cateau.  Bobby 
Laing,  of  The  Heughs,  nephew  of  our  autobio- 
graphical Major,  had  been  killed  in  the  landing 
of  the  King's  Own  Scottish  Borderers  at  Galli- 
poli.  Neither  of  Mrs.  Clegg's  sons  had  exhibited 
any  leaning  towards  what  their  father  described 


78  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

as  "this  fashionable  military  nonsense,"  so  Mrs. 
Clegg's  mind  was  at  rest.  She  left  everything, 
quite  cheerfully — like  too  many  of  her  kind — to 
the  Willing  Horse. 

Of  course,  she  admitted,  there  was  little  going 
on  socially.  Still,  it  was  gratifying  to  roll  band- 
ages or  pack  comfort-bags  in  company  with  coun- 
tesses ;  and  though  there  were  flies  in  the  ointment 
—  in  the  shape  of  common  persons  like  Mrs.  Gal- 
braith,  the  chemist's  wife,  and  the  Misses  Pea- 
body,  included  in  the  same  gathering  by  the  caste- 
destroying  processes  of  wartime — there  were 
consolations.  Netherby  itself,  with  its  spacious 
accommodation  for  meetings  and  committees,  was 
a  card  which  only  great  social  strongholds  like 
Buckholm  and  Baronrigg  could  overtrump. 

It  has  been  noted  that  Amos  and  Joshua  Clegg 
had  betrayed  no  disposition  to  j  oin  up.  But  while 
Amos  in  this  matter  followed  his  undoubted  in- 
clinations, Joe  was  restrained  only  by  the  bonds 
of  parental  discipline.  For  one  thing,  Joe  was  a 
Public-School  boy,  and  Amos  was  not.  Joe's 
school  had  only  been  a  small  establishment  in  the 
North  of  England,  but  in  nineteen-fourteen  its 
little  Officers'  Training  Corps  had  contributed  its 
full  quota  of  young  men.  To  Amos,  Public 
Schools  (to  quote  his  father)  were  places  where 


A  TRYST  79 

boys  learned  "to  take  care  of  their  H's  and  de- 
spise their  parents  " :  to  his  younger  brother  the 
Public-School  tradition  was  the  ark  and  covenant, 
not  to  be  lightly  profaned  by  parental  sneers  or 
fraternal  failure  to  understand.  So  Joe  kept  his 
own  counsel,  and  ate  his  dour  young  Northum- 
brian heart  out  for  twelve  sickening  months. 

The  climax  had  come  that  very  morning,  with 
the  arrival,  for  Joe,  of  a  circular  from  his  old 
school,  requesting  that  he  would  "  be  so  kind  as 
to  fill  up  the  enclosed  form  "  with  certain  specific 
information  regarding  his  military  service,  for 
inclusion  in  the  School  Roll  of  Honour — his 
rank,  his  unit,  mentions  in  dispatches,  and  the  like. 
There  was  no  alternative  column  to  fill  in ;  no 
comfortable  loophole  labelled  "  Civilian  war  work 
of  national  importance"  —  nothing  of  that  kind 
at  all :  nothing  but  a  stark  request  for  poor  Joe's 
military  status  and  record.  It  had  not  occurred 
to  the  editors  that  any  Old  Boy  could,  in  these 
days,  be  elsewhere  than  in  khaki. 

Consequently,  Marjorie  had  found  Joe  after 
breakfast,  with  his  head  in  his  arms,  crying  like  a 
child  in  a  corner  of  the  unfrequented  and  cheerless 
Netherby  smoking-room.  (Albert  Clegg  did  not 
smoke. )  After  comforting  him  in  the  only  fashion 
she  knew  —  and  a  very  acceptable  fashion  any 


80  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

young  man  but  a  brother  would  have  considered  it 
—  she  made  up  her  mind  on  the  spot  to  accept  a 
certain  sentimental  invitation  somewhat  shyly 
offered  by  Roy  Birnie,  and  laughingly  refused  by 
herself,  two  days  previously.  That  was  why  she 
was  now  lying  in  the  bracken  on  the  edge  of 
Craigfoot  Wood,  gazing  up  the  road  to  Baron- 


ii 

IT  was  Roy's  last  day  at  home.  At  the  outbreak 
of  war,  to  his  own  intense  indignation,  he  had  been 
refused  a  commission.  Many  of  his  young  friends, 
common  civilians  no  older  than  himself,  had  been 
endowed  with  what  they  described  as  'one  pip' 
and  set  to  command  platoons  all  over  the  country. 
But  Roy,  as  a  prospective  regular,  had  been 
despatched  —  the  victim  of  a  conspiracy  in  which 
he  traced  the  hand  of  every  person  but  the  right 
one  —  to  Sandhurst,  where  he  was  compelled  to 
undergo  an  intensive  education  in  the  science  of 
warfare,  speculating  grimly  meanwhile  as  to  the 
kind  of  mess  his  amateur  supplanters  were  mak- 
ing of  the  British  Expeditionary  Force.  Some- 
times he  woke  at  night  in  a  cold  sweat,  having 
dreamed,  as  he  had  sometimes  dreamed  before  a 
house  match,  that  the  war  had  come  to  an  end 
before  he  had  had  his  innings. 


A  TRYST  81 

Now,  at  last,  he  was  emancipated.  He  was  a 
second  lieutenant.  He  could  wear  a  Sam  Browne 
belt  and  look  an  A.P.M.  right  in  the  face  —  in- 
stead of  hurriedly  plunging  down  side  streets  to 
avoid  that  suspicious  official's  eye,  as  he  had  fre- 
quently done  when  up  in  London  on  leave  with  a 
crony,  the  pair  of  them  decked  in  borrowed  trap- 
pings to  which  a  cadet's  rank  did  not  entitle  them. 
He  was  an  officer,  holding  the  King's  Commis- 
sion ;  and,  best  of  all,  had  been  gazetted  to  the 
Second  Battalion  of  the  old  regiment,  of  which 
his  uncle,  "  Leathery  Laing,"  was  now  second-in- 
command.  He  had  completed  his  draft  leave, 
and  was  to  report  at  the  Depot  at  six  o'clock 
this  Sunday  evening,  to  take  charge  of  a  con- 
tingent bound  overseas  to  reenf  orce  the  battalion 
at  a  point  on  the  Western  Front  as  yet  unrevealed. 

He  had  made  his  farewells  —  in  the  offhand, 
jocular  fashion  affected  by  our  race  in  cases  where 
the  probability  of  return  is  more  than  doubtful. 
His  father  had  shaken  hands  with  him,  and  shaken 
his  own  head  at  the  same  time.  Tom  Birnie's 
heart  was  not  in  the  war  :  he  persisted  in  his 
belief  that  it  was  started  by  the  Jingoes. 

His  friends  —  and  Roy  had  friends  in  every 
walk  of  life  —  had  loaded  him  with  messages  to 
fathers,  brothers  and  sweethearts  who  were  gone 


82  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

before  into  the  pillar  of  cloud.  Mr.  Gillespie,  the 
bank  manager,  entrusted  him  with  a  small  pack- 
age (on  behalf  of  Mesdames  Spot  and  Plain), 
containing  mysterious  comforts  for  son  Robert. 
Jamie  Leslie,  the  organ-blower  of  the  parish 
church,  buttonholed  him  in  the  street. 

"Mr.  Roy,"  he  said  wistfully,  "you'll  tell  the 
boys  oot  there  that  I  have  tried,  and  tried,  for  Jo 
get  ower  ;  but  they  winna  hae  me  !  It's  because 
I'm  no  quite  richt  in  the  heid,"  he  added,  with  a 
candour  which  might  well  have  been  imitated  by 
others  occupying  more  exalted  official  positions 
than  his  own.  "  You'll  tell  them  ?  I  wouldna 
like  them  for  tae  think  —  " 

Roy  supplied  the  necessary  assurance,  and 
passed  on  to  receive  a  message  from  old  Mrs. 
Rorison,  whose  son  John,  a  giant  of  six  feet  four 
inches,  had  abandoned  the  service  of  the  post  office 
in  order  to  join  the  Scots  Guards. 

"Tell  oor  John,"  said  the  old  lady — it  was 
universally  assumed  that  Roy  would  encounter 
the  entire  Craigfoot  contingent,  regardless  of 
rank  or  unit,  immediately  upon  landing  —  "tae 
keep  his  heid  doon  in  they  trenches.  I  ken  him  ! 
And  dinna  go  keeking  ower  the  top  yourself,  Mr. 
Roy  I "  This,  on  the  whole,  was  the  most  prac- 
tical valediction  that  Roy  received. 


A  TRYST  83 

Lord  Eskerley's  farewell  was  quite  character- 
istic. 

"  Good-bye  !  Don't  give  away  any  military 
news  when  you  write  to  her.  It  has  done  a  lot 
of  harm  already." 

There  was  no  one  left  now  to  say  good-bye  to 
but  Marjorie.  Like  the  young  sentimentalist  that 
he  was,  Roy  was  reserving  her  for  the  last.  He 
wanted  to  bid  her  farewell  at  the  very  final 
moment  —  and,  if  possible,  clandestinely.  There 
existed  no  obstacle  whatever  to  his  driving  openly 
to  Netherby  and  delivering  his  farewell  speech  on 
the  hearthrug  in  the  library,  or  among  the  rasp- 
berry-canes in  the  kitchen  garden.  But  war 
sharpens  our  romantic  appetites  to  a  surprising 
degree.  At  the  most  ordinary  times  lovers  are 
accustomed  to  bid  one  another  good  night  with 
an  expenditure  of  time  and  intensity  which  takes 
no  account  of  the  fact  that  they  are  going  to 
meet  again  directly  after  breakfast  to-morrow 
morning.  How  much  more  pardonable  and 
ecstatic,  then,  must  that  exercise  be  when  it  really 
is  good  night  —  when  it  is  more  than  probable 
that  before  the  time  for  reunion  comes  round 
again,  one  of  the  participants  may  have  blown 
out  his  little  candle  for  good. 

Roy's  preference  for  surreptitious  love-making 


84  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

was  natural  enough,  for  another  reason.  He  was 
a  member  of  the  shyest  and  most  self-conscious 
brotherhood  in  the  world  —  the  tribe  of  the  less- 
than-twenty-one's.  By  rights  he  should  not 
have  been  in  love — matrimonially  —  at  all.  A 
healthy  English  Public- School  boy  of  nineteen 
is  not  entitled  to  such  emotions  as  inspired  Master 
Roy  and  his  friends  in  the  year  of  grace  nineteen- 
fifteen.  His  mind  should  be  set  —  and  in  normal 
times  almost  invariably  is  set — upon  his  biceps 
muscle,  or  his  first  salmon,  or  his  college  rowing 
colours,  or  (at  moments  of  periodic  festivity)  the 
acquisition  of  souvenirs,  like  policemen's  helmets 
or  door-knockers.  Permanent  association  with 
one  of  the  softer  sex  should  be  to  him,  for  several 
years  yet,  a  delightful  unattainability.  He 
matures  late,  does  our  young  Briton,  and  pre- 
mature responsibility  as  husband  and  father 
usually  prevents  him  from  ever  developing  into 
the  man  he  was  meant  to  be.  But  wise  old  Nature 
is  always  ready  to  modify  her  own  laws  in  an 
emergency.  In  nineteen-fif teen  people,  especially 
young  people,  found  their  perspectives  consider- 
ably foreshortened.  It  is  no  use  taking  long  views 
about  life  at  a  time  when  life  promises  to  be  more 
than  usually  short.  There  is  just  one  thing  to 
do,  and  that  is  to  reach  out  with  both  hands  after 


A  TRYST  85 

such  of  life's  gifts  as  are  normally  reserved, 
especially  in  this  country  of  ours,  for  those  of 
riper  years. 

So,  engaged  couples  who  in  nineteen-fourteen 
had  taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  their  wed- 
ding must  be  postponed  until  after  the  war, 
suddenly  realised  that  there  might  be  no  after  the 
war  for  one  of  them,  and  incontinently  got  mar- 
ried. Boys  and  girls  whose  sentimental  exercises 
in  normal  times  would  have  been  limited  to  sit- 
ting out  dances  behind  a  screen  in  the  Christmas 
holidays  not  only  became  engaged,  but  usually 
plunged  into  matrimony  a  few  weeks  later.  They 
were  governed  by  forces  which  they  did  not  en- 
tirely comprehend,  and  which  few  of  them  would 
have  been  capable  of  resisting  if  they  had.  They 
had  no  idea  how  they  were  going  to  live  after  the 
war  ;  but  they  married  all  the  same.  It  was 
essentially  a  case  where  the  morrow  must  take 
thought  for  itself.  They  capitalised  all  their 
stock,  both  of  money  and  of  youth,  these  happy 
young  gamblers,  and  lived  ecstatically  on  that 
capital,  stoically  resigned  to  the  probability  that 
before  it  was  exhausted  their  little  partnership 
would  have  been  dissolved.  And  in  too  many 
cases,  poor  souls,  they  were  justified  in  their  ex- 
pectations. But  who  shall  say  that  they  were 


86  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

wrong,  or  improvident,  to  do  as  they  did  ?  Pru- 
dence, perhaps  ;  commonsense,  possibly.  But  not 
nature,  nor  patriotism,  nor  romance,  nor  the  spirit 
of  adventure. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  our  impetuous 
Roy  had  reasoned  out  these  matters  with  any 
degree  of  profundity.  All  he  knew  was  that  he 
had  loved  that  glorious  girl,  Mar jorie  Clegg,  from 
the  moment  he  had  first  seen  her  in  Craigfoot 
parish  church  a  year  and  a  half  ago  ;  and  that 
now  he  was  called  upon  to  go  away  and  relinquish 
even  his  present  scanty  opportunities  of  seeing 
her.  Moreover,  his  battalion  had  got  through 
twenty-three  second  lieutenants  in  the  last  ten 
months.  One,  obvious,  course  was  indicated  ;  but 
it  was  a  big  step  for  a  reserved  schoolboy  of  nine- 
teen. To  tell  Mar  jorie,  tout  court,  that  he  loved 
her  frightened  him — far  more  than  any  statistics 
about  second  lieutenants.  If  it  had  been  peace- 
time he  would  have  followed  the  natural  path  of 
a  boy  who  falls  in  love  with  a  girl  of  his  own  age. 
He  would  have  decided  to  grow  up,  and  become 
an  eligible  parti  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 
He  might,  possibly,  have  declared  himself,  and 
invited  his  beloved  to  "wait  for  him."  It  is 
within  the  bounds  of  probability  that  the  damsel 
would  have  promised  to  do  so.  The  affaire  would 


A  TRYST  87 

then  have  proceeded  on  its  innocuous  course  — 
spasmodically  enough,  owing  to  the  interposition 
of  such  things  as  University  terms,  regimental 
duties,  or  vulgar  office  hours — to  its  normal  end. 
That  is  to  say,  the  girl  would  probably  have  met 
and  married  some  one  really  eligible  a  few  years 
older  than  herself,  leaving  it  to  the  hand  of  Time 
to  heal  the  wounds  of  her  late  cavalier  and  unite 
him  in  due  course  to  another  really  eligible  girl 
some  years  younger  than  himself,  recently  the 
property  of  a  shaveling  of  nineteen. 

But  this  was  not  peace-time.  The  country  was 
at  war,  and  for  reasons  already  indicated  waiting 
and  seeing  had  gone  out  of  fashion.  The  watch- 
word of  the  moment,  whether  applied  to  muni- 
tions or  matrimony,  was,  "  Do  It  Now  ! "  No 
wonder  that  Roy  felt  his  heart  leap  to  his  throat 
as  the  Baronrigg  car,  conveying  him  to  the  Depot 
seven  miles  away,  surmounted  the  last  crest  on  the 
undulating  road,  and  revealed  to  him  Marjorie's 
two-seater  standing  in  the  hollow  below,  under 
the  lee  of  Craigfoot  Wood.  For  all  her  prelim- 
inary refusal  and  offhand  acceptance,  Marjorie 
had  kept  tryst. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  INEVITABLE 

MARJOBIE  stood  on  the  bank  above  the  road,  knee- 
deep  in  bracken.  The  Baronrigg  chauffeur,  an 
elderly  gentleman  with  that  perfect  repose  of 
manner  which  is  given  only  to  such  members  of 
the  tribe  as  are  promoted  coachmen,  drew  up 
beside  the  two-seater.  Roy  jumped  out  and 
saluted  with  great  smartness.  He  was  in  uniform, 
and  was  hung  about  with  that  warlike  parapher- 
nalia professionally  known  as  "  the  whole  Christ- 
mas Tree."  Having  disencumbered  himself  of 
this,  he  threw  it  into  the  car,  climbed  the  bank, 
and  joined  his  lady.  His  heart  bumped. 

"  You  do  look  nice,"  said  Marjorie.  "  But  what 
is  the  matter  with  your  buttons  ? " 

"  I  have  painted  them  with  some  black  stuff," 
replied  Roy.  "  Quite  the  thing — not  swank  !  It 
is  always  done  on  active  service  :  otherwise  my 
twinkling  little  buttons  might  attract  the  eye  of 
vigilant  Boche."  He  took  her  arm,  a  little  fever- 
ishly. "  What  about  a  stroll  in  the  shades  of  the 
forest  ?  What  about  it,  what  ? " 

This  was  not  the  way  in  which  Roy  had  in- 


THE  INEVITABLE  89 

tended  to  begin  the  interview.  Upon  such  occa- 
sions of  stress  no  man  knows  what  humiliating 
tricks  self -consciousness  may  not  play  upon  him. 
But  Marjorie,  of  the  superior  sex,  appeared  quite 
unruffled. 

"  All  right,"  she  said  cheerfully  ;  "  come  along  ! 
I  am  so  glad  you  are  here." 

"Are  you,  Marjorie?"  exclaimed  Roy,  much 
encouraged. 

"Yes.  I  want  to  consult  you  about  some- 
thing." 

Roy  drew  back  an  overhanging  branch. 

"  Step  inside  the  consulting  room  ! "  he  sug- 
gested. 

Marjorie  seated  herself  upon  a  ledge  of  rock  in 
the  snug  nook  which  the  branch  had  concealed. 
Roy  lay  down  on  the  grass  at  her  feet.  There 
was  silence.  At  last  Marjorie  said  : 

"  When  must  you  be  at  the  Depot  ? " 

"Six."  Roy  glanced  at  his  new,  luminous, 
dust-proof,  non-breakable  wrist-watch.  "  That 
gives  me  twenty  minutes.  What  did  you  want  to 
talk  to  me  about,  Marjorie?" 

"About  Joe." 

"  Oh  ! "  There  was  a  certain  lack  of  enthusi- 
asm about  the  interjection,  but  Marjorie  did  not 
notice  it.  Roy  looked  up  at  her.  Her  brow  was 


90  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

puckered,  and  her  eyes  were  troubled.  She  was 
very  fond  of  brother  Joe.  Roy,  resolutely  dis- 
engaging his  attention  from  the  high  lights  in 
her  hair,  said  gently  : 

"  Tell  me." 

Marjorie  blazed  out  suddenly. 

"  He  can't  stand  it  any  longer  !  He  has  done 
his  best  to  be  patient,  and  obedient  to  father,  and 
all  that ;  but  it's  breaking  his  heart.  Why,  only 
this  morning — " 

She  related  the  pitiful  incident  of  the  school 
circular  and  the  Roll  of  Honour.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  had  finished. 

"  So,"  she  concluded,  "  he  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  join  up." 

"  Good  egg  ! "  observed  Roy.  "  Is  he  going  to 
apply  for  a  commission,  or  what  ? " 

"That  was  what  I  wanted  to  consult  you 
about,"  said  Marjorie.  "  You  are  so  clever  about 
these  things,  Roy." 

"  Fire  away !"  replied  Roy,  much  inflated. 

"Commissions,"  asked  Marjorie  —  "can  you 
get  them  easily  ? " 

"Not  so  easily  now.  The  authorities  are  be- 
ginning to  sit  up  and  take  notice.  The  first  lot 
of  officers  in  the  new  armies  were  mostly  all  right. 
They  didn't  know  much,  but  they  were  sahibs, 


THE   INEVITABLE  91 

who  played  the  game  and  handled  their  men 
properly.  Now  they  are  getting  used  up,  and 
some  pretty  strange  fish  have  been  given  com- 
missions lately.  The  voice  of  the  T.G.  is  heard 
in  the  land.  Here  is  a  letter  from  my  uncle,  Alan 
Laing  —  our  second-in-command.  You  know 
him  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  have  seen  him." 

Roy  chuckled. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  he  has  seen  you  ;  and 
you  fairly  knocked  him  flat !  But  never  mind 
Uncle  Alan  now.  He's  a  wicked  old  man,  any- 
how. About  this  T.G.  business.  Uncle  Alan 
wrote  to  me  the  other  day.  He  said  that  some 
of  the  officers  lately  sent  out  were  about  the 
stickiest  crowd  he  had  yet  handled.  Here's  the 
letter.'* 

Of  course,  among  ourselves  in  the  Mess,  he  read,  we 
make  allowances,  and  try  to  get  the  best  out  of  them; 
for  after  all,  most  of  them  are  plucky  enough  and  effi- 
cient enough.  Unfortunately,  tJie  rank-and-file,  with 
the  true  British  passion  for  inequality,  do  not  share  our 
democratic  sentiments.  They  say,  in  effect  :  "  This 
blanket y  blighter  is  no  better  than  we  are.  Why  should 
we  salute  him,  or  obey  him,  or  follow  him  ?  "  The  T.G. 
too  often  confirms  his  own  sentence  ;  I  caught  one  of  my 
subalterns  trying  to  stand  a  corporal  a  drink  the  other 
day.  I  hear  they  are  going  to  start  officers'  schools 
soon.  The  sooner  the  better  ! 


92  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"Of  course,"  said  Marjorie,  flying,  woman- 
like, to  the  personal  application  of  the  subject, 
"  Joe  wouldn't  behave  like  that." 

"Good  Lord,  no!  Of  course  he  wouldn't," 
said  Roy. 

"Amos  probably  would,  though,"  added  honest 
Marjorie.  "  He  has  never  been  to  a  proper  school, 
so  he  has  had  no  chance  to  have  his  Clegg  manners 
improved.  But  we  aren't  troubling  about  Amos  : 
it's  Joe.  Would  they  take  him  into  a  Cadet 
Officers'  School,  do  you  think  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  they  would,"  said  Roy  confidently. 
"  Only,  it  might  require  a  little  time,  you  know." 

"  That's  a  drawback,"  replied  Marjorie. 
"  Once  father  knows  what  Joe  is  trying  to  do,  his 
life  at  home  won't  be  worth  living.  It'll  be  a 
fight  all  day  long  :  he  will  be  lectured,  and  bad- 
gered, and  prayed  over.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
they  sent  for  Uncle  Fred  1 " 

A  thought  struck  Roy. 

"  I  say,"  he  enquired,  "how  old  is  Joe  ? " 

"Twenty." 

"  That  hangs  the  crape  on  Joseph ! "  an- 
nounced Roy  —  "  for  a  year,  at  any  rate.  They 
won't  give  a  commission  to  a  minor  without  his 
father's  consent."  He  wriggled.  "  Don't  I  know 
it  1  If  they  did,  I'd  have  been  in  the  show  a  year 
ago." 


THE  INEVITABLE  93 

"In  that  case,"  said  Marjorie,  "we  must  fall 
back  on  our  second  plan." 

"We?" 

"  I  mean  Joe  and  I." 

"  Oh,  sorry.  I  was  hoping  you  meant  you  and 
me  !  What  is  the  plan  ? " 

"It's  a  secret  just  now,"  said  Marjorie. 
"Perhaps  I'll  tell  you  about  it,  when  I  write." 

Roy  looked  up  eagerly. 

"  You  will  write  to  me  ? "  he  said.    "  Often  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  will !  "  said  the  girl.  "  It  will  be 
wonderful ! " 

What  she  meant  was  that  it  would  be  wonder- 
ful to  have,  in  future,  a  personal  interest  in  the 
British  Expeditionary  Force.  As  already  in- 
dicated, the  circle  in  which  Marjorie  had  been 
born  and  bred  was  not  very  heavily  represented 
in  France — nor  would  be  until  conscription 
came.  But  now  Roy  would  be  there.  She  would 
have  a  personal  outlet  for  her  imagination,  and  a 
peg  to  hang  her  prayers  on.  Women  hate  ab- 
stract patriotism,  as  they  hate  all  abstractions. 
Roy  would  supply  the  human,  personal  element, 
upon  which  a  woman's  visions  must  always  be 
founded.  Male  orators  might  volley  and 
thunder  about  the  common  cause  and  the  redemp- 
tion of  civilization  ;  but  to  most  women  the  Great 


94  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

War  and  its  issues  were  usually  embodied  in  the 
person  of  a  single  undistinguished  individual  in 
a  tin  bowler. 

Roy,  of  course,  did  not  understand. 

"  How  glorious  of  you  to  say  that,  Marjorie  ! " 
he  exclaimed. 

"You  do  not  know,"  continued  Marjorie  rap- 
turously, "  how  I  have  longed  and  longed  to  have 
some  one  to  write  to,  and  send  parcels  to,  and 
everything — some  one  I  really  knew  I — instead 
of  a  bundle  of  things  to  be  distributed  among  a 
whole  platoon  I " 

"And  you  are  going  to  make  me  that  particular 
person  ? "  said  Roy,  joyfully. 

"  Rather  !  You  see,"  explained  Marjorie  with 
fatal  frankness,  "  I  don't  know  anyone  else.  At 
least,  I  shan't,  until  Joe  — 

Roy's  face  fell.    "  I  thought  there  was  a  catch 
about  it ! "  he  said  woefully. 
\" About  what  ? " 

"About  what  you  said.  I  didn't  understand 
that  all  you  wanted  was  some  one  to  write  to  ; 
and  any  old  thing  would  do  —  even  me  !  I  did 
hope,  for  a  minute —  " 

Marjorie  was  all  repentance  at  once. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  cried.  "How  hateful  of  me  !  Roy, 
I  didn't  mean  it !  What  must  you  think  of  me  ? 


THE   INEVITABLE  95 

I  must  seem  like  a  common  little  war-flapper. 
But  I'm  not,  am  I  ?  Roy,  you  know  I'm  not ! 
Will  you  forgive  me  ? "  She  extended  a  hand 
impetuously. 

It  fired  the  train.  Next  moment  Roy  had 
caught  it  in  both  of  his,  and  was  kissing  it  rap- 
turously. 

"Marjorie —  dear  !"  he  murmured.  He  was 
kneeling  before  her  now,  with  his  arms  crossed 
upon  her  knees.  He  looked  up  into  her  face,  and 
suddenly  realised  what  he  was  leaving  behind. 
A  great  sob  shook  him.  Perhaps  the  thought  of 
the  twenty-three  second  lieutenants  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.  After  all,  he  was  only  nine- 
teen, and  love  and  life  were  very  sweet.  His  head 
sank  on  to  his  arms  ;  his  shoulders  heaved. 

There  followed  a  brief  interval  of  silence  — 
perhaps  three  minutes.  But  within  that  interval 
something  happened  to  Marjorie. 

Presently  a  slim  hand  removed  Roy's  glen- 
garry bonnet,  and  began  to  stroke  his  obstinately 
curly  hair.  Next,  Roy  was  conscious  of  a  warm 
splash,  somewhere  behind  his  right  ear  —  fol- 
lowed by  another,  and  another.  Marjorie  was 
shaking  now.  Roy  looked  up  at  her  again,  and 
the  sight  of  her  wet  face  suddenly  braced  him 
against  his  own  weakness.  He  sprang  up. 


96  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  You  poor,  poor,  poor  1 "  he  said.  "  Let 
me—" 

He  produced  a  khaki  handkerchief  from  his 
sleeve,  and  dried  her  eyes,  Marjorie  meekly  sub- 
mitting. After  that,  inevitably,  he  kissed  her. 
It  was  not  a  very  successful  kiss  :  first  kisses 
seldom  are.  Then  he  sat  down  upon  the  grass 
again  with  his  head  against  her  knee,  and  her 
hand  against  his  cheek.,  He  sighed,  long  and 
rapturously.  Marjorie  stroked  his  hair  with  her 
free  hand.  Children  both,  they  were  living 
through  a  moment  for  which  others,  less  fortu- 
nate, have  sometimes  waited  a  lifetime,  and  which 
in  no  case  ever  comes  to  man  or  maid  a  second 
time. 

Presently  they  began  to  talk,  employing  the 
two  inevitable  topics  of  the  newly-betrothed  — 
"When  did  it  begin?"  and,  "Do  you  re- 
member ?" 

They  recalled  their  first  glimpse  of  one  an- 
other—  that  May  morning  in  church,  more  than 
a  year  ago. 

.  "Uncle  Alan  was  very  witty  on  the  subject," 
said  Master  Roy.  "  Oh,  most  diverting  !  It's 
my  belief  the  old  ruffian  was  having  a  good  one- 
time-look-see at  you  himself,  and  that  was  why 
he  caught  me  at  it.  Well,  I  can't  say  I  blame 
him!" 


THE  INEVITABLE  97 

They  wandered  on  to  the  second  subject.  Here 
they  had  much  ground  to  cover. 

They  had  not  actually  met  until  three  weeks 
after  the  glimpse.  During  those  weeks  Roy 
religiously  attended  dances,  tea-parties,  political 
meetings,  even  a  church  soiree,  in  the  hope  of 
encountering  his  divinity  ;  but  in  vain.  Once 
he  bought  three  numbered  and  reserved  seats  for 
an  amateur  theatrical  entertainment  in  the  Town 
Hall,  and  sent  two  of  these  to  Netherby,  "With 
the  compliments  of  the  committee."  But  Mrs. 
Clegg,  knowing  that  her  husband  did  not  hold 
with  theatrical  entertainments,  and  that  under 
no  circumstances  would  she  or  the  family  be  per- 
mitted to  attend  this  one,  had  passed  the  tickets 
on  to  a  more  emancipated  quarter,  with  the  result 
that  Roy  witnessed  the  performance  in  the  gig- 
gling company  of  two  Netherby  housemaids.  He 
told  the  story  to  Marjorie  now,  and  was  rewarded 
with  tears  and  laughter. 

But  they  had  met  at  last — at  the  local  Hunt 
Steeplechases.  Marjorie  was  present,  privily,  in 
the  two-seater,  with  brother  Joe.  Roy  had  spied, 
the  pair  from  the  regimental  enclosure.  He  was 
due  back  at  his  crammer's  in  two  days'  time,  and 
was  a  desperate  man.  Summoning  his  entire 
stock  of  audacity  —  it  was  considerable,  but  he 


98  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

needed  it  all  —  he  left  the  enclosure,  pushed  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  and  addressed  himself  to 
the  male  member  of  the  rather  forlorn  couple 
standing  by  the  rails. 

"I  say,  sir,  aren't  you  Mr.  Clegg,  of 
Netherby?" 

Joe,  quite  unequal  to  the  situation,  murmured 
something  inarticulate  ;  but  Marjorie  came  to  the 
rescue. 

"  How  do  you  do  ? "  she  said.  "  You  are  Mr. 
Birnie,  aren't  you  ? " 

"  Yes.  We  are  your  next-door  neighbours  — 
your  nearest  little  playmates,  in  fact,"  replied 
Master  Roy.  (Netherby  is  some  four  or  five 
miles  from  Raronrigg  ;  but  no  matter.)  "My 
father  has  been  meaning  to  shoot  cards  on  you 
for  a  long  time.  Meanwhile,  would  you  care  to 
come  into  the  enclosure  ?  Rracing  air  !  Gravel 
soil  1  Commands  a  distant  prospect  of  the 
Cheviot  Hills,  and  so  on  !  Highly  recommended  ! 
Do  come  1 "  He  waited  breathlessly  for  her  re- 
ply, fearful  of  having  gone  too  far.  Rut  the  in- 
vitation was  accepted. 

"  What  a  moment ! "  he  said.  "  What  a  mo- 
ment !"  He  looked  up  at  Marjorie  again.  "  I 
was  afraid  you  would  turn  me  down,  for  cheek. 
You  hesitated  a  bit,  didn't  you  ? " 


THE   INEVITABLE  99 

Marjorie  laughed,  joyously. 

"  My  dear,  that  was  for  manners  I  I  wouldn't 
have  let  you  go  at  that  moment  for  anything  in 
the  world  ! "  She  played  a  gentle  arpeggio  on 
the  brown  cheek  under  her  hand. 

"  By  gum,  I  wish  I  had  known  that ! "  observed 
Roy,  with  sincerity. 

Once  inside  the  enclosure  Marjorie  created  a 
profound  sensation.  It  is  true  that  not  many  of 
her  own  sex  addressed  themselves  to  her,  but  this 
omission  was  more  than  balanced  by  the  em- 
pressement  of  the  gentlemen. 

First  of  all,  naturally,  she  was  introduced  to 
the  senior  officer  present  —  Major  Eric  Bethune, 
who,  in  the  secret  view  of  his  subordinates,  pro- 
ceeded to  take  an  unsportsmanlike  and  unduly, 
prolonged  advantage  of  his  superior  rank.  Duty 
called  him  at  last  to  the  side  of  a  lady  of  riper 
years.  Thereafter,  Marjorie,  almost  invisible  for 
second  lieutenants,  was  escorted  about  the  course, 
shown  the  jumps,  plied  with  tea,  and  invited  to 
back  horses  at  other  people's  expense.  She  had 
driven  home  in  a  dream,  with  her  exhausted 
relative  slumbering  beside  her. 

After  that  a  few  mothers  and  sisters,  hounded 
thereto  by  clamorous  menkind,  had  left  cards  at 


100  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Netherby.  The  calls  had  been  duly  returned, 
with  the  result  that  some  of  the  sisters  added 
themselves,  quite  voluntarily,  to  the  ranks  of  the 
brothers.  Mar  j  orie  possessed  the  supreme  quality 
in  a  woman  of  being  attractive  to  her  own  sex. 
Mrs.  Clegg  and  her  daughter  began  to  be  seen  at 
subscription  balls  and  the  more  comprehensive 
garden  parties  ;  presently  at  more  intimate  en- 
tertainments. In  the  end,  Netherby  usually 
received  a  card  for  any  function  that  was  going, 
always  excepting  such — formal  dinner  parties 
and  the  like  —  as  necessitated  inviting  Albert 
Clegg. 

"The  girl  is  a  peach,"  was  the  local  verdict, 
"  and  mother  does  her  best ;  but  the  old  man 
merely  suggests  eternal  punishment ! " 

And  wherever  Mar  j  orie  appeared  —  at  ball, 
function,  fete,  bazaar,  gymkhana,  or  tea-fight, 
Master  Roy  Birnie,  home  for  good  from  the 
crammer's,  was  usually  visible  in  respectful  at- 
tendance. 

Not  that  she  had  not  other  adherents.  Even 
Major  Bethune  himself,  the  handsomest  man  and 
the  most  eligible  parti  in  the  county,  did  not 
consider  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  sit  out  a  dance 
or  two  with  the  daughter  of  Albert  Clegg.  But 
Roy's  devotion  was  marked  by  its  unflagging  and 


THE  INEVITABLE  101 

conscientious  continuity.  He  was  a  regular  visitor 
at  Netherby.  It  was  his  habit  to  ride  over  even' 
morning — usually  about  eleven,  when  the  master 
of  the  house  was  engaged  in  transacting  business 
in  the  library,  mostly  over  the  telephone  to  New- 
castle—  where  he  would  play  tennis,  perform 
tricks  on  the  billiard  table,  give  the  children  rid- 
ing-lessons, pick  roses  for  Mrs.  Clegg — do  any- 
thing, in  fact,  which  afforded  him  a  reasonable 
excuse  for  remaining  on  the  premises.  Being 
British,  and  only  eighteen,  his  passion  had  not 
declared  itself  in  words  ;  nor  would  have  for 
many  a  day,  but  for  the  quickening  influences 
already  indicated.  Even  when  the  coming  of  war 
suddenly  laid  a  man's  responsibilities  upon  his 
young  shoulders,  and  removed  most  of  his  rivals, 
real  and  imaginary,  en  masse,  to  the  other  side  of 
the  Channel,  he  did  not  look  higher,  for  the  pres- 
ent, than  the  foot  of  Marjorie's  pedestal.  His 
intention  was  to  leave  his  lady  perched  upon  the 
summit  thereof  for  the  duration  ;  and  then,  if 
and  when  he  returned  safe  and  whole  from  casti- 
gating the  Boche,  to  invite  her  to  step  down  to 
earth  and  start,  under  his  escort,  upon  the 
adventure  of  life.  To  do  more  at  present  struck 
him  as  unsportsmanlike.  He  would  be  forcing 
her  hand  unfairly  ;  he  would  be  taking  a  senti- 


102  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

mental  advantage  of  the  military  situation.  But 
the  last  ten  minutes  had  entirely  upset  his  plan  of 
operations.  He  had  kissed  Marjorie  ;  Marjorie 
had  indubitably  kissed  him  back  ;  and  now  they 
were  sitting  side  by  side  in  Craigfoot  Wood,  in 
an  attitude  which  twelve  months  ago  would  have 
outraged  both  his  susceptibilities  and  his  sense  of 
humour,  facing  the  prospect  of  indefinite  separa- 
tion. What  was  the  next  step  ?  What  about  it, 
what  ?  Pending  a  decision,  he  saluted  his  lady 
afresh. 

From  the  road  below  them  came  a  respectful 
toot  from  the  horn  of  the  Craigfoot  motor,  sug- 
gestive of  a  faithful  attendant  coughing  a  discreet 
reminder  behind  his  hand.  Roy  glanced  at  his 
watch,  and  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  heartrending 
sigh. 

"  Time  to  go  1 "  he  groaned. 

He  held  out  his  hands  to  Marjorie,  and  raised 
her  up.  For  a  moment  those  two  young  people 
looked  one  another  bravely  in  the  face  —  for  the 
last  time,  for  aught  they  knew.  They  were  very 
much  of  a  height ;  Roy  had  the  advantage  of 
perhaps  an  inch.  Then  that  direct  young  maiden, 
Marjorie,  put  both  arms  round  Roy's  neck. 

"Good-bye,  dear,"  she  said.  "Take  care  of 
yourself,  and  come  back  safe  to  me  ! " 


THE  INEVITABLE  103 

"I'll  come  back,"  replied  Roy  stoutly,  for- 
getting all  about  the  twenty-three  second  lieuten- 
ants. He  had  no  doubts  about  anything  now. 
Then  : 

"Marjorie,"  he  asked,  "when  will  you  marry 
me  ?  As  soon  as  the  war  is  over  ? "  He  waited, 
expectant. 

Marjorie's  answer  took  the  rather  puzzling 
form  of  a  little  choking  laugh,  accompanied  by 
two  large  tears. 

"  As  soon  as  that  ? "  she  asked. 

The  young  of  the  male  species  possesses  no 
intuition. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Roy  earnestly,  "  just  as  soon ! 
Or" — with  the  air  of  one  conceding  a  point — 
"pretty  soon  after."  He  came  closer.  "Mar- 
jorie— will  you  ? "  ( 

This  time  Marjorie  smiled  without  any  tears  at 
all  —  a  purely  maternal  smile. 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  little  man  ! "  she  said. 

Then  she  kissed  him  again,  and  sent  him  off  to 
fight  for  her. 

That  night  Joe  Clegg  crept  downstairs,  out  of 
the  house,  and  thence  (per  two-seater)  to  the 
railway  junction  twelve  miles  away.  Here  he 
caught  the  early  morning  train  to  London,  where 


104  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

it  was  his  intention  to  enlist.  He  was  accompanied 
by  his  sister  Marjorie,  who,  after  a  final  and 
tempestuous  debate  with  her  father  upon  the 
subject  of  filial  duty  and  feminine  usefulness  in 
war-time,  had  decided  to  burn  her  boats  too,  and 
enlist  in  the  gallant  sisterhood  of  those  who  were 
Really  Trying  to  Help. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SOLO 

THE  lights  sank  low  again,  and  a  flickering  an- 
nouncement appeared  upon  the  screen,  to  the 
effect  that  the  next  picture  would  be  a  further 
instalment  of  that  absorbing  serial,  The  Marvels 
of  Natural  History  —  upon  this  occasion,  Still 
Life  in  the  Frog  Pond.  The  majority  of  the 
audience  took  the  hint,  rose  to  their  feet,  and 
shuffled  out.  But  Marjorie  stayed  on.  Some  of 
us  go  to  the  pictures  to  see  pictures,  others  to  hold 
hands,  others  to  sit  down  and  rest.  Marjorie 
belonged  to  the  third  class.  Not  even  the  prospect 
of  a  quarter-of-an-hour  in  a  frog  pond  could 
induce  her  to  concede  to  the  management  the 
chance  of  selling  her  seat  once  more  before  closing 
time.  She  sat  on,  in  a  tired  reverie. 

Marjorie  had  arrived  in  London  three  months 
ago,  to  find  that  overcrowded  metropolis  fairly 
evenly  divided  between  two  classes — the  people 
who  had  taken  up  war  work,  and  the  people 
who  were  doing  it.  The  chief  difficulty  of  the 
latter  was  to  push  their  way  through  the  un- 


106  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

yielding  ranks  of  the  former.  Things  righted 
themselves  later,  under  the  unsentimental  regime 
of  necessity  ;  but  in  November,  nineteen-fifteen, 
the  road  to  victory  was  blocked  with  good  inten- 
tions. 

Having  invaded  London,  Marjorie  and  Joe 
devoted  two  days  to  exploration.  Marjorie  had 
been  in  London  twice  before — going  to  and 
returning  from  school  in  Paris — her  stay  upon 
each  occasion  being  limited  to  a  single  extremely 
domestic  evening  at  Uncle  Fred's  house  in  Dul- 
wich.  This  experience  naturally  qualified 
Marjorie  (being  Marjorie)  for  the  role  of  guide 
and  courier  to  that  unsophisticated  yokel, 
brother  Joe.  They  put  up  at  the  Grand  Hotel, 
because  Marjorie  considered  Trafalgar  Square 
a  good  point  d'appui,  and  a  difficult  place  to  lose 
altogether  even  in  the  howling  wilderness  of 
Central  London.  They  pooled  their  money. 
Marjorie  had  drawn  the  whole  of  the  savings  of 
her  dress  allowance  —  about  one  hundred  pounds 
—  from  the  custody  of  Mr.  Gillespie  shortly 
before  the  day  of  her  departure,  and  Joe  had  a 
quarter's  salary  intact.  They  dined,  went  to  the 
play,  sat  in  the  Park,  lunched  at  the  Carlton,  and 
generally  had  their  fling  (but  not  of)  a  world 
composed  entirely  of  elegantly  dressed  females 
and  uniformed  officers  of  every  grade. 


SOLO  107 

After  keeping  carnival  for  forty-eight  hours, 
Marjorie  conducted  her  brother  to  a  recruiting 
office,  where  the  authorities  were  unfeignedly 
glad  to  see  him,  business  at  that  period  being 
lamentably  slack.  There,  having  kissed  him,  she 
left  him  and  returned  to  the  Grand  Hotel.  At 
the  end  of  half-an-hour  she  rose  from  her  bed, 
dabbed  her  eyes  with  a  cold  sponge,  sent  for  her 
bill,  paid  it  with  a  bright  smile,  and  removed 
herself  and  her  effects  to  a  self-contained  flat  near 
the  Brompton  Road.  There  she  sat  down  to 
make  a  plan.  She  had  several  sketched  out,  but 
her  choice  depended,  like  so  many  other  choices  in 
this  life,  upon  sordid  financial  considerations.  If 
her  allowance  were  continued,  she  could  afford  to 
do  war  work  for  love.  If  not,  she  must  perforce 
do  war  work  for  money.  So  she  wrote  to  her 
father,  telling  him  frankly  why  she  and  Joe  had 
left  home,  giving  her  new  address,  and  concluding 
her  letter: 

So  now  you  know  where  I  am.  If  I  don't  hear  from 
you  I  shall  know  that  you  don't  intend  to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  me.  But  I  hope  I  shall  hear  from  you. 
Love.  Marjorie. 

Upon  the  question  of  her  father's  financial  in- 
tentions she  refrained  from  inquiry,  for  she  knew 
full  well  what  the  result  of  such  directness  would 


108  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

be.  Her  intention  was  to  hold  on  until  the  Sep- 
tember quarter,  and  then  try  the  experiment  of 
a  cheque  to  her  own  order  on  Mr.  Gillespie's  bank. 
Her  hope  was  that  the  allowance  would  continue 
automatically,  as  it  might  not  occur  to  her  father 
to  stop  it  —  presuming  he  wished  to  do  so. 

"  If  he  does,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  must  just 
go  and  work  in  an  ammunition  factory,  or  some- 
thing—that's all !  Still,  I  don't  believe  he  will. 
Father's  a  hard  man,  but  he  does  try  to  be  just. 
He  can't  punish  me  for  simply  wanting  to  work 
now,  of  all  times  ! " 

In  this  she  did  her  father  no  less,  and  as  it 
ultimately  proved,  no  more  than  justice  ;  for 
a  ballon  d'essai  despatched  northward  to  Mr. 
Gillespie  at  the  end  of  September  was  received 
by  him  with  the  honour  due  to  a  credit  balance. 

But  September  was  a  long  way  off.  Marjorie 
methodically  reviewed  all  the  avenues  of  occu- 
pation open  to  her.  Nursing  attracted  her  most ; 
but  she  knew  herself  to  be  pathetically  ignorant 
of  the  elements  of  the  craft,  and  furthermore 
doubted  (rightly)  if  her  combative  nature  would 
endure  the  complete  subservience  to  the  pro- 
fessional element  inevitable  in  the  life  of  that 
plucky,  much-enduring,  self-effacing  Cinderella, 
the  V.A.D.  Stenography  and  typewriting  were 


SOLO  109 

unknown  to  her.  Munition-making  at  this  time 
was  but  an  infant  industry  —  as  the  occupants  of 
the  trenches  had  continuous  occasion  to  note, 
with  characteristic  comment.  There  were  a  num- 
ber of  minor  Red  Cross  activities  open  to  her  — 
bandage-rolling,  parcel-packing,  and  the  like  — 
but  these  pursuits  were  too  sedentary  for  ebullient 
Marjorie.  Other  forms  of  war  activity,  such  as 
selling  programmes  at  charity  matinees,  or  pes- 
tering total  strangers  in  'buses  and  tube-trains  to 
purchase  flags  to  relieve  the  contingent  wants  of 
hypothetical  Allied  babies,  were  pushed  con- 
temptuously aside  as  war  work  pour  rire.  It 
was  not  too  easy,  either,  to  know  where  to  apply, 
with  adequate  results.  Upon  the  Olympus  whence 
the  country  was  being  directed  to  victory,  the 
Organisation  of  Womanhood  still  lay  in  the  tray 
— much  the  biggest  tray  on  Olympus — marked 
"  Pending."  Those  quaint  but  proud  expressions, 
"Wren,"  "Waac,"  and  "Wraf"  had  not  yet 
been  added  to  the  English  language. 

Marjorie  finally  decided  to  try  canteen  work. 
Vicarious  service  had  no  attraction  for  her  ;  to 
get  as  close  as  possible  to  the  human  side  of  an 
enterprise  was  all  her  aim.  At  the  canteen  she 
would  see  and  wait  upon  the  most  human  member 
of  the  human  family,  one  Thomas  Atkins.  A 


110  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

single  fear  made  her  hesitate.  She  wanted  to 
spend  herself  utterly  upon  the  Cause.  Might  not 
this  canteen  business  prove  just  a  little  too 
trivial ;  a  little  too  like  playing  at  work  ? 

She  tried  it  for  a  week.  After  carrying  tea-urns 
from  the  kitchen  to  the  counter  for  eight  con- 
secutive hours  she  decided,  without  any  hesitation 
whatever,  that  her  apprehensions  were  groundless. 

Month  by  month,  Marjorie  bent  her  giant's 
spirit  and  her  straight  young  back  to  her  task. 
The  Canteen,  near  Waterloo  Station,  was  never 
closed,  and  was  full  at  practically  every  hour  of 
the  day  and  night.  But,  day-shift  or  night-shift, 
fair  weather  or  foul,  good  news  or  bad,  nothing 
made  any  difference  to  Marjorie.  She  was  always 
on  time,  always  cheerful,  always  perfectly  ready 
to  perform  tasks  left  undone  by  the  Undertakers 
of  War  Work.  She  set  herself  a  standard  of 
endurance  and  privation  approximately  as  nearly 
as  possible  to  that  which  she  understood  prevailed 
on  the  Western  Front.  This  seemed  to  her  the 
least  that  a  stay-at-home  person  like  herself  could 
do,  in  consideration  of  the  fact  that  no  bodily 
risk  attached  to  her  duties.  (As  yet,  Zeppelin 
f rightfulness  was  merely  one  of  London's  gratui- 
tous entertainments.)  Consequently,  after  six 
months'  unceasing  drudgery,  Marjorie  was 


SOLO  111 

beginning  to  feel  very  tired,  and  just  a  little 
despondent. 

The  spirit  of  despondency  stalked  abroad  in 
those  days  :  it  was  the  natural  reaction  from  the 
wave  of  enthusiasm  which  had  carried  the  country 
so  highheartedly  through  the  anxieties  and  un- 
certainties of  the  first  twelve  months.  It  was 
becoming  increasingly  obvious  that  "K"  was 
right ;  that  the  war  was  going  to  last  for  a  term 
of  years  ;  and  that  the  country  could  not  reach 
the  goal  on  its  first  wind.  Pending  the  arrival  of 
the  second,  a  slump  in  martial  enthusiasm  was 
inevitable.  Tubes  and  omnibuses  no  longer 
carried  men  in  uniform  for  nothing.  Civilians 
no  longer  offered  their  seats  to  soldiers  and  sail- 
ors. Patriotic  flappers  no  longer  presented  white 
featHers  to  wounded  officers  in  mufti.  It  was  no 
longer  considered  de  rigueur  for  the  orchestra  in 
public  restaurants  to  bring  a  docile  public  to  its 
feet  by  periodical  excursions  into  patriotic  melody. 
The  Battle  of  Loos  had  demonstrated  once  more 
that  the  young  British  soldier  never  fights  better 
than  in  his  first  battle  ;  also,  alas  !  that  when  a 
nation  goes  to  war  free  from  the  taint  of  "  mili- 
tarism," soldiers  must  die  that  Staffs  may  learn. 
Gallipoli  had  been  evacuated,  when  with  a  little 
luck  and  good  management  the  evacuation  might 


112  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

have  taken  place  at  the  other  end.  Bulgaria  had 
recently  joined  our  enemies,  and  it  was  felt  that 
with  more  skilful  handling  she  would  have  come 
down  upon  our  side  of  the  hedge.  Early  in 
December  figures  to  date  of  British  casualties  in 
all  theatres  of  war  were  officially  announced  for 
the  first  time  :  they  reached  a  total  more  than 
five  times  as  great  as  the  numbers  of  the  original 
Expeditionary  Force.  A  shortage  of  men  was 
becoming  apparent :  although  nearly  four  million 
had  joined  the  Colours,  the  cry  was  still  for  more. 
The  Voluntary  system  was  at  its  last  gasp. 
Despite  the  honest  and  ingenious  Derby  scheme 
for  a  more  even  distribution  of  the  burden,  it 
was  plain  that  an  intolerable  and  increasing 
weight  was  being  borne  by  The  Willing  Horse. 
Conscription,  long  overdue,  was  clearly  on  the 
way,  with  the  result  that  the  voice  of  the  Con- 
scientious Objector  was  now  heard  in  the  land. 
On  the  top  of  all  this  the  No-Treating  Order  had 
come  into  force,  and  another  injustice  was  in- 
flicted upon  that  section  of  the  community  which 
preferred  that  its  refreshment  should  be  paid  for, 
as  its  battles  were  being  fought,  by  some  one  else. 
Even  Marjorie's  spirits  sagged  a  little  during 
that  black  winter.  Her  sense  of  oppression  was 
increased  by  two  potent  factors.  In  the  first 


SOLO  113 

place,  she  was  underfed.  It  was  entirely  her  own 
fault,  or,  rather,  that  of  her  first  parent,  Eve. 
In  their  hearts,  all  women  cherish  a  profound  con- 
tempt for  what  men  call  good  food.  Formal  meals, 
consumed  at  leisure  and  with  comfortable  ritual, 
are  to  them  a  mere  pandering  to  gross  male 
standards  of  self-indulgence.  A  woman  hates 
sitting  at  a  dinner-table  through  a  meal  of 
thoughtfully  varied  courses.  To  her  the  perfect 
repast  is,  was,  and  always  will  be  an  egg  on  a  tray, 
on  a  chair,  in  any  room  but  the  dining-room. 

Marjorie  was  not  exempt  from  this  failing. 
Too  often  her  principal  meal  of  the  day  was  eaten 
in  a  tea-shop,  and  consisted  of  food  that  satisfied 
quickly  and  nourished  not  at  all.  The  meals  at 
Netherby  had  been  irksome,  but  they  were  at 
least  wholesome.  Furthermore,  in  her  desire  to 
emulate  the  soldier's  lot,  she  imposed  upon  her- 
self a  voluntary  rationing  scheme — which  if 
applied  in  military  circles  would  have  undoubt- 
edly produced  a  mutiny.  She  had  the  zealot 
spirit,  too.  After  the  twelfth  of  October,  the  day 
upon  which  Edith  Cavell  died,  Marjorie  ate 
neither  butter  nor  jam  for  a  fortnight.  Less  sin- 
cere tributes  have  been  paid  to  our  great  dead. 

But,  above  all,  she  was  desperately  lonely.  If 
it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone,  it  is  far  worse 


114  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

for  woman.  And  Marjorie  was  very  much  alone. 
It  is  surprising  what  a  small  acquaintance  most  of 
us  really  possess.  Such  as  are  occupied  every  day 
in  earning  a  living — and  who  is  not  in  these  times? 
—  are  almost  entirely  dependent  for  human  com- 
panionship upon  the  people  with  whom  they  work 
and  the  people  with  whom  they  share  a  home.  Of 
course,  there  is  a  certain  type  which  makes  so- 
ciability its  life  work  ;  which  is  eternally  busy 
with  visiting-cards  and  engagement-book  ;  scrap- 
ing acquaintance  here,  exchanging  addresses 
there  —  the  type,  in  fact,  which  entertains  a  not 
altogether  unreasonable  dread  of  being  left  alone 
with  itself.  But  if  you  possess  neither  the  inclina- 
tion nor  the  leisure  for  these  amenities,  and  do 
not  live  at  home,  and  do  not  happen  to  work  in 
company  with  a  throng  of  your  fellow-creatures, 
you  can  be  a  very  lonely  individual  indeed,  especi- 
ally in  a  great  city. 

Marjorie,  fortunately,  had  the  canteen.  She 
formed  acquaintanceships  quickly,  as  all  attrac- 
tive people  do.  Some  of  these,  owing  to  her 
natural  discrimination,  were  short-lived,  and  none 
made  an  abiding  impression.  Marjorie  was  more 
interested  in  things  than  people  in  those  days. 
But  the  soldiers  appreciated  her.  Sometimes 
their  appreciation  took  the  form  of  tips.  One 


SOLO  115 

Canadian  presented  her  with  half  a  crown,  and 
commanded  her  to  buy  "  candy  "  with  it ;  but  the 
majority  of  her  patrons  furtively  thrust  a  penny 
or  twopence — and  twopence  meant  a  good  deal 
to  Tommy  in  those  shilling-a-day  times  —  under 
the  saucer,  adjusted  cap,  and  said  awkwardly, 
"  Well,  so-long,  miss  ! "  hurrying  out  before  the 
delinquency  was  discovered.  Many  of  them  sent 
her  post  cards,  from  Flanders,  or  Egypt,  or  In- 
dia, addressed  as  often  as  not,  if  they  had  lacked 
the  courage  to  ask  her  name  beforehand,  to  the 
"  Young  Lady  with  the  Tea  Urns." 

But  Marjorie's  leisure  hours  were  not  exhil- 
arating. That  moment  at  the  end  of  the  day's 
work,  when  every  member  of  the  human  family 
ought  to  be  provided  by  law  with  some  one  or 
something  to  go  home  to,  was  the  worst.  Still,  it 
was  all  part  of  the  game,  and  she  played  up 
sturdily.  She  invented  amusements  for  herself 
—  such  as  could  be  indulged  in  by  one  person, 
gifted  with  imagination  and  a  sense  of  humour. 
London  itself  was  her  playground.  Most  of  the 
picture  galleries  and  museums  were  closed  by  this 
time  ;  but  London's  real  attractions  are  ever  in 
the  street.  Walking  home  on  a  fine  morning 
from  night  duty,  Marjorie  would  frequently  look 
in  at  St.  James's  Palace  to  see  that  the  Guard 


116  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

was  properly  changed.  Sometimes  she  trudged 
as  far  as  Buckingham  Palace  with  the  relief.  She 
bought  a  little  book  which  dealt  with  London 
landmarks,  and  sought  out  for  her  own  amuse- 
ment the  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  London  Wall,  the 
site  of  Tyburn  Tree,  and  the  birthplaces  of  nu- 
merous historical  celebrities.  She  acquired  a 
store  of  useless  but  pleasant  knowledge  :  for  in- 
stance, that  the  wooden  slab  with  iron  legs,  which 
stands  by  the  railings  of  the  Green  Park  in 
Piccadilly,  was  originally  set  up  to  enable  ticket- 
porters  to  rest  their  bundles  for  a  moment  before 
breasting  the  gradient — more  perceptible  to  a 
ticket-porter  than  a  modern  taxi — that  leads  to 
Hyde  Park  Corner. 

The  great  railway  stations  were  a  perpetual 
feast  to  her,  especially  Victoria  and  Waterloo. 
Many  an  evening  found  her  at  the  barrier  at 
Victoria  as  the  leave  train  drew  up  at  the  plat- 
form, to  disgorge  a  wave  of  bronzed,  boisterous, 
mud-caked,  unshaven  children  into  the  arms  of 
demonstrative  relatives.  Sometimes,  too,  in  the 
early  morning,  she  attended  this  same  train's 
departure,  upon  the  shortest  run  in  the  world  — 
the  run  in  the  opposite  direction  was  the  longest 
—  the  journey  between  London  and  Folkestone. 
With  swelling  heart  and  tightening  lips  she 


SOLO  117 

watched  the  crowd  of  returners  to  duty  —  all 
curiously  silent,  and  all  smiling  in  the  most 
unanimous  and  resolute  manner  for  the  benefit 
of  those  who  had  come  to  see  them  off.  The 
silence  and  the  resolution  broke  sometimes  when 
the  warning  whistle  sounded  —  perhaps  for  ten 
seconds.  As  soon  as  the  train  began  to  move, 
Marjorie  always  turned  and  walked  rapidly  away 
before  the  women  came  wandering  aimlessly  back 
from  the  empty  platform.  She  could  bear  most 
things,  but  not  that. 

There  were  few  amusements  upon  which  she 
could  afford  to  spend  money.  The  theatre  gen- 
erally was  beyond  her  reach,  but  the  cinema  was 
an  abiding  boon  to  herself  and  countless  others  — 
a  fact  to  which  the  attention  of  intellectual  de- 
spisers  of  common  pleasures  is  respectfully 
directed.  The  cinema  was  always  open  ;  one  could 
go  in  when  one  had  time,  and  come  out  when  one 
had  had  enough.  One  could  go  there  alone  with- 
out looking  or  feeling  conspicuously  alone,  which 
is  not  possible  in  the  ordinary  theatre ;  there  were 
no  waits,  and  no  noise;  and  the  darkened  audi- 
torium, whether  one  regarded  the  screen  or  not, 
was  a  rest-cure  in  itself. 

Then  there  was  the  recreation  of  correspond- 
ence. Marjorie  wrote  to  Roy  every  day,  and  Joe 


118  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

once  a  week.  She  had  received  no  letter  from 
Netherby  in  answer  to  her  own  ;  so  she  decided 
to  make  no  present  attempt  to  repair  the  rupture 
of  diplomatic  relations  in  that  quarter.  Joe  was 
now  a  private  in  the  Royal  Engineers,  undergoing 
intensive  training  in  the  north  of  England.  She 
had  not  seen  him  since  his  enlistment,  nor  expected 
to,  for  leave  was  difficult.  Moreover,  Joe  referred 
frequently  and  appreciatively  in  his  letters  to 
local  hospitality.  Marjorie  scented  a  romance, 
but  Joe  gave  nothing  away. 

And  there  were  Roy's  letters.  They  arrived 
with  amazing  regularity — the  postal  service  of 
the  British  Expeditionary  Force  was  one  of  the 
unadvertised  marvels  of  the  war — written  in 
pencil  upon  the  thin  blue-squared  sheets  of  a  field 
dispatch-book,  with  the  censor's  triangular  stamp 
in  one  corner  of  the  envelope  and  Roy's  own  name 
scribbled  on  the  other.  They  contained  little 
military  information,  and  a  surprising  amount  of 
irrelevant  foolishness.  Roy  told  Marjorie  about 
life  in  billets.  He  reported  upon  his  progress 
with  the  French  tongue.  He  told  her  of  Madame 
la  fermiere,  in  whose  loft  he  slept,  and  with  whom 
he  practised  elegant  conversation,  but  who  was 
unfortunately  only  intelligible  upon  Sunday,  that 
being  the  one  day  in  the  week  when  her  false  teeth 


SOLO  119 

were  in  actual  use.  For  the  rest  of  the  week  they 
reposed  thriftily  in  a  drawer.  He  told  her  how 
he  visited  a  French  Field  Hospital,  and  had  com- 
mitted the  solecism  of  addressing  the  nurse  —  an 
elderly  Sister  of  Charity  —  as  "Mademoiselle 
Nourrice."  He  wrote,  as  a  schoolboy  might,  of 
some  extra  good  "  blow-out "  at  an  estaminet ;  of 
his  small  amusements  ;  of  his  small  grievances. 
He  wrote,'  as  a  lover  does,  of  his  lady,  and  how 
much  he  loved  and  missed  her,  and  how  greatly 
the  thought  of  her  inspired  him.  But  of  tactical 
operations,  or  the  joy  of  battle  —  and  there  is 
such  a  thing — or  the  privations  and  horrors  of 
war,  there  was  nothing.  The  whole  aim  of  the 
man  in  the  trenches  at  this  time  appears  to  have 
been  to  maintain  the  morale  of  the  people  at 
home.  It  was  during  this  very  month  that  Forain, 
the  French  cartoonist,  epitomised  the  psychology 
of  the  entire  war  in  a  single  drawing — two  gaunt, 
mud-caked  poilusf  crouching  waist-deep  in  the 
water  of  a  devastated  trench  during  an  intensive 
bombardment,  gasping  anxiously  to  one  another  : 
"  Si  les  civils  tiennent  I" 

Of  Roy's  whereabouts  Marjorie  knew  little. 
He  had  come  safely  through  the  Battle  of  Loos  — 
more  fortunate  than  the  majority  of  his  col- 
leagues. He  had  served  in  Belgium  for  a  space  ; 


120  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

after  that  the  Division  had  been  transferred  to 
France  again.  He  was  fond  of  indicating  his 
position  on  the  map  by  cryptograms  insoluble  by 
friend  or  foe,  or  codes  which  not  even  their  author 
could  decipher  the  day  after  their  invention.  But 
occasionally  he  succeeded  : 

Of  course  we  are  not  permitted  to  say  where  toe  are, 
but  it  would  be  harmful  to  blub  about  it. 

The  latter  half  of  this  sentence  sounded  so 
more  than  usually  idiotic  that  Marjorie  felt  sure 
it  conveyed  some  subtle  message.  But  though 
she  applied  every  solution  known  to  the  amateur 
detective,  she  could  make  nothing  of  it.  It  was 
not  for  many  weeks  that  it  occurred  to  her,  during 
the  night  watches,  to  cease  probing  for  key-words 
or  transposing  vowels,  and  to  try  paraphrasing 
the  sense  of  the  text.  By  this  means  she  reached 
the  conclusion  that  there  was  "harm  in  tears  "  — 
and  a  "  buried  town  "  immediately  sprang  to  view. 
But  more  often  she  was  trapped  in  the  pitfalls  of 
ambiguity. 

"  This  is  a  pleasant  old-world  spot"  Roy  had 
remarked  in  a  recent  letter.  " You  would  love  the 
Vicar." 

"The  Vicar!  The  Vicar?  The  Vicar  of 
what?"  Marjorie  spent  half  an  hour  poring 
over  the  Daily  Mail  map  of  the  Western  Front 


SOLO  121 

which  decorated  the  greater  part  of  her  bedroom 
wall,  in  a  vain  search  for  a  place  called  Wakefield, 
or  anything  like  it.  She  wrote  back  : 

By  the  way,  the  Vicar  you  are  so  enthusiastic  about  is 
an  entire  stranger  to  me. 

To-night  another  letter  had  come,  conveying 
enlightenment : 

Sorry  you  don't  like  the  Vicar.  He  used  to  be  a  good 
chap.  An  up-river  man,  and  some  singer  in  his  day. 

Two  minutes  later,  Marjorie's  pencil  was  on 
the  map,  underlining  Bray-sur-Somme.  Dear 
Roy  !  She  leaned  back  in  her  cheap  little  stall  in 
the  darkness,  and  chuckled  softly  to  herself.  How 
wonderfully  these  foolish  trifles  lubricated  the 
grinding  wheels.  But  oh  —  ! 

Spots  and  splashes  appeared  upon  the  film,  and 
it  began  to  rain  ink — an  infallible  sign  in  the  world 
of  moving-picture  romance  of  the  less  expensive 
kind  that  the  end  of  the  tale  is  approaching. 
Marjorie  rose  to  her  feet,  pulled  on  her  hat,  and 
felt  her  way  out  into  the  Earl's  Court  Road.  She 
was  sufficiently  well  known  to  the  asthmatic 
Admiral  of  the  Fleet  —  at  least  he  looked  like 
that  —  who  guarded  the  portals  of  the  Electric 
Palace  to  receive  from  him  a  gracious  good  night. 

"  O  reevoyer,  miss  !  I  'ope  to  see  you  on 
Thursday.  We  shall  'ave  a  fresh  picture  then 


122  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

—  Charlie  Chaplin,  the  new  screen  comedian. 
Everybody's  talking  about  'im.  Very  comical, 
'eis!" 

Not  far  from  Earl's  Court  Station,  in  the 
obscurity  of  the  discreetly  darkened  street, 
Mar jorie  came  upon  a  motor-car.  A  girl  chauffeur 
was  endeavouring  to  jack  up  the  off -hind  wheel. 
Mar  jorie  ranged  up  alongside  at  once. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  she  said. 

"Thanks,"  gasped  the  girl.  Together  they 
wrestled  with  the  stiff  jack. 

"A  puncture  ?"  inquired  Marjorie. 

"  Yes.  Rotten  luck  !  I  am  only  a  mile  from 
home,  and  this  old  tyre  has  gone  on  the  blink.  I 
must  put  on  the  spare  rim." 

"I  know  this  kind,"  said  Marjorie,  fired  with 
characteristic  enthusiasm  at  the  prospect  of  a 
thoroughly  irksome  job.  "  Let  me  do  it  1 " 

"  You're  welcome  I "  said  the  girl,  who  was 
white  with  fatigue.  "  I  don't  mind  the  driving 
and  the  long  hours,"  she  continued  sociably, 
settling  down  on  the  running  board  while  Mar- 
jorie deftly  removed  the  unserviceable  rim;  "but 
changing  tyres,  and  oiling  the  engine,  and  filling 
up  grease-cups,  and  all  those  messy  things  — 
Chat's  what  I  can't  stick  ! " 

i  "Is  this  your  —  your  work  during  the  war  ?" 
asked  Marjorie,  suddenly  interested. 


SOLO  123 

"Yes  —  The  Women's  Legion.  We  haven't 
been  started  long.  It's  hard  work  in  all  weathers  ; 
but  it's  helping — a  bit.  I'm  trying  to  keep  my 
husband's  job  open  for  him." 

Ten  minutes  later,  utterly  exhausted,  Marjorie 
let  herself  into  her  tiny  flat  in  a  by-street  off  the 
Brompton  Road.  It  was  half -past  nine.  She  set 
the  alarm  clock  for  half -past  five,  and  went  to  bed 
with  Roy's  letter  under  her  pillow.  She  dreamed 
that  Roy  had  been  promoted — suddenly,  but  not 
unexpectedly — to  the  rank  of  Commander-in- 
Chief ,  and  that  it  was  her  privilege  to  drive  him  to 
battle  every  morning  at  five-thirty,  in  a  motor-car 
with  the  off -hind  tyre  punctured. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DUET 


IN  one  respect  her  dream  came  true. 

Shortly  after  nine  o'clock  next  morning,  as  the 
breakfast  rush  eased  off,  Marjorie  was  aware  of 
the  flushed  features  of  the  lady  superintendent  of 
the  canteen,  Miss  Penny  — "The  Mouldy  Old 
Copper,"  in  the  unregenerate  language  of  the 
junior  staff  —  angrily  visible  through  a  mephitic 
fog  to  which  steaming  tea,  frying  bacon,  and  moist 
humanity  had  all  contributed.  (Even  in  the 
crispest  weather  Tommy  Atkins  is  a  most  hygro- 
scopic individual. ) 

"  We  are  for  it,  my  dear ! "  announced  The 
Mouldy  Old  Copper. 

"  What  —  Zeppelins  ? "  inquired  Marjorie,  set- 
ting her  tenth  urn  in  position. 

"  Worse  !  Inspection  !  They  are  coming 
at  twelve.  The  Government  have  suddenly  de- 
cided to  inquire  into  the  feasibility  of  making  the 
Canteen  Service  an  official  affair  —  a  branch  of 
the  A.S.C.,  or  the  R.A.M.C.,  or  the  Q.M.G.,  or 
some  other  futility.  So  they  are  coming  to  inspect 


DUET  125 

us,  as  '  a  typical  example  of  a  canteen  maintained 
by  voluntary  effort  and  service.'  I  got  it  over  the 
telephone  just  now." 

"It  was  decent  of  them  to  warn  you,"  said 
Marjorie. 

"  That's  just  what  they  haven't  done  !  I  got 
the  news  by  a  side  wind.  It's  to  be  a  surprise 
inspection.  They  want  to  see  what  a  show  run 
by  women  is  like  when  it's  off  its  guard.  I  like 
their  impudence  !  What  do  they  expect  to  catch 
us  doing,  I  wonder — arranging  the  tea-cups  in 
the  wrong  formation  ;  or  not  keeping  accounts  in 
triplicate  ;  or  flirting  with  the  men  ;  or  what  1 " 
The  Mouldy  Old  Copper  turned  a  bright  bronze 
colour.  "I'll  jolly  well  talk  to  them,  if  they  start 
any  of  their  old —  ! " 

"  Don't  you  think,"  suggested  Marjorie,  "that 
it  would  be  a  good  plan  to  telephone  round  at 
once  to  make  sure  that  there  are  enough  wait- 
resses ?  You  know  what  a  bear-garden  this  place 
is  when  the  men  can't  get  served." 

Miss  Penny  considered. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,"  she  said.  "  At  least,  we 
will  warn  some  of  them.  Not  all  —  oh  dear  no, 
not  all !  There  are  women  connected  with  this 
place  who  haven't  allowed  their  so-called  work 
here  to  interfere  with  a  single  tea-fight  or  subal- 


126  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

tern-hunt  since  they  joined.  Of  course  they 
would  sell  their  souls  to  crush  in  to-day.  Well, 
they  shan't  1  They  shall  hear  all  about  it  to- 
morrow, instead !  I  shall  love  telling  them  — 
especially  the  Toplis  girl,  and  Lady  Adeline,  and 
Mrs.  Napoleon  Jones  —  or  whatever  the  name  of 
that  horror  with  the  pekineses  is  !  You  run  along, 
dear,  and  telephone  to  about  a  dozen  of  the  decent 
ones,  and  tell  them  to  be  sure  and  turn  up  by 
ten-thirty." 

The  result  was  that  at  high  noon,  when  the 
Olympians  descended  upon  Waterloo  Road,  they 
found  the  canteen  crowded  with  happy  warriors 
partaking  of  nourishment  from  the  hands  of  a 
bevy  of  attractive  and  competent  Hebes.  The 
Committee  of  Inspection  consisted  of  a  much- 
beribboned  Major- General,  two  or  three  lesser 
luminaries  proportionately  decorated,  and  an 
elderly  civilian  in  a  shocking  hat. 

The  Mouldy  Old  Copper  conducted  the  proces- 
sion round  the  canteen.  Here  and  there  a  halt 
was  called  at  a  table,  where  the  Major-General, 
having  made  the  diners  thoroughly  comfortable 
by  commanding  them  strait ly  to  "sit  at  ease," 
inquired,  in  the  voice  of  a  Bengal  tiger  endeavour- 
ing to  coo  like  a  dove,  whether  there  were  "  any 
complaints."  There  were  none,  which  was  most 


DUET  127 

gratifying,  but  not  altogether  surprising. 

Marjorie,  greatly  diverted  by  the  sotto  voce 
remarks  which  reached  her  from  tables  in  her 
neighbourhood,  rested  her  tired  arms  upon  the 
speckless  counter  and  looked  demurely  down  her 
nose.  Upon  her  ear  fell  a  raven's  croak  : 

"Very  good  —  with  such  a  short  time  for 
rehearsal !  But  these  damsels  must  come  here 
every  day,  you  know  I  By  the  way,  does  he  write 
to  you  regularly  ?  I  told  him  to." 

Marjorie  turned,  and  gaped  in  the  most  un- 
ladylike manner.  The  elderly  civilian  in  the  bad 
hat  had  strayed  away  from  his  escort,  and  now 
stood  at  her  elbow — revealed  as  Lord  Eskerley, 
to  whom  she  had  once  been  presented  at  a  regi- 
mental gymkhana  at  Craigfoot.  Apparently  he 
was  aware  that  the  Olympian  deputation  were 
being  treated  to  a  display  of  "eyewash."  Ap- 
parently, also;  he  knew  Marjorie.  Not  only 
Marjorie,  but  Marjorie's  most  private  affairs. 
Altogether,  he  seemed  to  know  too  much. 

"By  the  way,"  continued  his  lordship  charac- 
teristically, "  how  do  you  do  ?  I  forgot."  They 
shook  hands.  "  Lovely  day,  isn't  it  ?  You  look 
overworked.  What  are  your  hours  here  ? " 

Marjorie  told  him. 

"  What  is  your  particular  metier  ?  " 


128  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Marjorie  introduced  the  tea-urns. 

"No  woman,  however  young  or  muscular, 
should  carry  heavy  things  about,"  said  Lord 
Eskerley.  "  Razors  to  cut  grindstones  ;  as  usual ! 
Would  you  like  a  change  of  occupation  ? " 

"Indeed  I  should,"  replied  Marjorie  —  "so 
long  as  it  was  helping  things  along,  you  know." 

"What  can  you  do  ? " 

Marjorie  fingered  the  dimple  on  her  chin 
dolefully. 

"Not  much,  I'm  afraid.  I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  nursing,  or  shorthand,  or  anything 
useful." 

"  You  can  drive  a  car,  though." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"  How  does  the  trembling  fawn  know  that  the 
wolf  is  not  a  vegetarian  ? "  The  old  gentleman 
glared  at  Marjorie  over  his  spectacles. 

"I  expect  its  mother  warns  it,"  hazarded 
Marjorie,  a  little  guiltily. 

"  Ah  !  Possibly.  My  mother,  unfortunately, 
never  saw  you,  though  I  am  sure  that  if  she  had 
she  would  have  warned  me.  But  there  are  other 
ways  —  instinct,  to  a  certain  extent ;  also  ex- 
perience. You  and  your  two-seater  once  missed 
me  by  inches  in  the  Craigf  oot  road.  You  were  on 
your  way  to  keep  an  appointment,  I  thought :  I 


DUET  129 

forbore  to  speculate  with  whom.  But  never  mind 
that.  Now  —  my  chauffeur  very  properly  j  oined 
the  army  to-day.  Would  you  care  to  step  into 
his  shoes  ?  He  wears  large  fourteens,  and  your 
appointment  would  probably  wreck  my  prospects 
as  an  eligible  widower  ;  but  I  think  those  are  the 
only  two  objections.  Will  you  give  me  a  trial  ? 
Thank  you  very  much  !  Report  this  evening." 

ii 

MABJORIE'S  labours  henceforth  were  as  arduous 
as  ever,  but  were  mainly  performed  in  the  open 
air — which  to  her  meant  all  the  difference  be- 
tween work  and  play.  Each  morning  she  drew 
up  before  Lord  Eskerley's  gloomy  mansion  in 
that  aristocratic  slum,  Curzon  Street,  at  nine 
o'clock  sharp,  and  conveyed  her  employer  upon 
his  daily  round.  First  to  the  Ministry  of  Intelli- 
gence, an  unobtrusive  mansion  in  the  purlieus 
of  Whitehall  Gardens.  Then,  about  eleven,  to 
Downing  Street.  Then  back  to  the  Ministry. 
About  one,  to  Curzon  Street,  for  a  brief  luncheon. 
In  the  afternoon  Marjorie  ran  errands  :  that  is 
to  say,  she  conveyed  visitors  to  the  Ministry  from 
all  quarters  of  London  —  from  other  Ministries, 
from  the  House  of  Commons,  or  from  remote 
private  addresses.  At  seven  she  conveyed  his 


130  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

lordship  home  to  Curzon  Street,  where,  day  in, 
day  out,  in  victory  or  defeat,  he  dined  at  seven 
forty-five  precisely. 

"Give  your  digestion  fair  play,"  he  once 
suddenly  advised  his  chauffeuse,  as  she  tucked 
him  into  the  car  on  a  bitter  January  afternoon, 
"  and  the  world  is  yours  ! " 

Marjorie  promised  to  do  so. 

"  Have  a  clear  understanding  with  your  stomach 
in  early  life,"  his  lordship  resumed,  the  moment 
Marjorie  reopened  the  door  of  the  car  twenty 
minutes  later.  "Remember  he  rules  the  rest  of 
your  internal  economy.  Socially,  we  never  meet 
him,  or  speak  of  him  ;  but  he  is  the  whole  show  I 
And — he  is  as  sensitive  as  an  upper  servant ! 
Give  him  the  consideration  due  to  his  position  ; 
don't  ask  him  to  work  at  unusual  times,  or  do 
things  that  are  not  part  of  his  duty  ;  and  he  will 
not  only  serve  you  for  a  lifetime,  but  will  keep 
your  heart  up  to  its  work,  restrain  your  brain 
from  more  than  usual  foolishness,  and  put  the 
fear  of  death  into  the  organs  below  stairs  I  But 
treat  him  casually,  or  give  him  odd  jobs  to  do 
—  and  he  will  let  you  down,  as  sure  as  fate  !  Call 
for  me  at  the  usual  time,  please." 
•  Marjorie's  duties  did  not  end  at  dinner-time  ; 
for  war  knows  nothing  of  the  eight-hour  day,  or 


DUET  131 

early  closing,  or  Sabbath  observance.  Lord 
Eskerley  frequently  went  out  about  nine  in  the 
evening — sometimes  to  Downing  Street,  occa- 
sionally to  Buckingham  Palace,  not  infrequently 
to  an  unpretentious  house  in  Dulwich,  where  he 
found  it  convenient  to  interview  persons  whom  it 
would  have  been  undesirable  to  receive  officially 
at  the  Ministry  or  Curzon  Street.  The  house 
stood  in  the  same  road  as  Uncle  Fred's.  The 
fact  gave  Marjorie,  gliding  past  in  the  wintry 
darkness,  a  pleasant  sensation  of  escape  from 
futility. 

One  bleak  and  muddy  day  in  February  she 
drove  Lord  Eskerley  down  to  Bramshott  Camp, 
to  assist  at  a  review  of  two  new  divisions.  Some- 
where outside  Godalming  the  gears  began  to  burr 
and  slip.  Finally,  Marjorie  pulled  in  at  the  side 
of  the  road  and  descended. 

The  window  of  the  car  was  let  down  and  Lord 
Eskerley 's  head  appeared. 

"  How  long  will  it  take  ? "  he  inquired,  avoiding 
superfluous  questions,  as  usual. 

"About  ten  minutes.  The  lever  has  worked 
loose  ;  I  can't  get  my  gears  in  properly,"  replied 
Marjorie. 

"  Do  you  want  any  help  ?  I  have  with  me  "  — 
his  lordship  leaned  back  and  exhibited  his 


132  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

fellow-passengers  —  "General  Brough-Brough  ; 
his  A.D.C.,  Captain  Sparkes  ;  and  Mr.  Meadows. 
The  General  and  Captain  Sparkes,  as  you  will 
observe,  are  all  dressed  up  in  review  order,  and 
I  cannot  have  them  tarnished  or  made  muddy, 
or  I  should  be  bringing  contempt  and  ridicule  on 
the  King's  uniform  ;  also  rendering  aid  and  com- 
fort to  the  enemy,  which  is  not  allowed  in  war 
time.  So  that  disposes  of  them.  I  shall  not  insult 
a  lady  of  your  capabilities  by  offering  my  assist- 
ance. That  leaves  Meadows.  Do  you  want  him  ? " 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Marjorie,  swiftly  re- 
moving the  floor  boards  above  the  gear  box.  The 
window  was  drawn  up  again,  and  Mr.  Meadows, 
Lord  Eskerley's  private  secretary,  a  young  man 
debarred  from  warlike  exercises  by  acute  astig- 
matism and  valvular  murmurs,  looked  very  much 
relieved. 

Ten  minutes  later,  Marjorie,  somewhat  flushed 
and  not  a  little  oily,  resumed  her  place  at  the 
wheel,  and  deposited  her  passengers  at  the  stroke 
of  the  appointed  hour  at  Divisional  Headquarters 
at  Bramshott. 

Her  employer,  stepping  out  of  the  car,  surveyed 
her  grimy  features  quizzically. 

"Habakkuk !"  he  chuckled. 

Six  hours  later,  at  the  end  of  the  return  j  ourney, 
he  inquired  : 


DUET  133 

"  Do  you  read  your  Voltaire  at  all  ?  Probably 
not :  I'll  send  you  his  '  Life.' " 

The  volume  reached  her  next  morning.  Therein 
Marjorie  discovered  a  marked  passage,  in  which 
it  was  recorded  that  Voltaire  found  Habakkuk 
"capable  de  tout/'  Thereafter,  Lord  Eskerley 
habitually  addressed  her  as  Habakkuk. 

in 

STILL,  Marjorie  was  not  entirely  happy.  As 
already  stated,  any  form  of  outdoor  occupation 
was,  in  her  view,  play  ;  and  the  present  was 
essentially  a  time  for  work.  She  belonged  to 
that  zealous  breed  which  is  never  really  contented 
unless  it  is  uncomfortable — to  whom  congenial 
occupation  is  merely  idleness  under  another  name. 
She  enjoyed  her  present  employment  so  much 
that  she  felt  ashamed  :  she  felt  that  she  was  not 
pulling  her  weight  in  the  war.  Probably  a  short 
conversation  with  a  sensible  person  would  have 
cured  her  of  these  illusions  ;  but  Marjorie  had 
no  one  with  whom  to  converse.  She  might  have 
confided  in  her  employer  ;  but  she  argued,  with 
some  reason,  that  he  would  merely  make  an 
apposite  and  caustic  reference  to  the  gentleman 
who  is  reputed  to  have  painted  himself  black  all 
over  in  order  to  play  Othello.  It  did  not  occur 


134  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

to  her  to  mention  the  matter  to  Roy  in  a  letter. 
Roy,  for  the  present,  belonged  to  his  country,  and 
was  not  to  be  diverted  from  his  duty  by  domestic 
or  personal  trifles.  What  Marjorie  needed  and 
longed  for  at  this  time  was  a  confidant. 

If  we  desire  a  thing  urgently  enough  we  usually 
get  it.  Sometimes  we  get  more  than  we  bargain  for. 

One  day  Lord  Eskerley  came  down  his  front- 
door steps  arm-in-arm  with  an  officer  in  uniform. 
His  lordship's  chauffeuse,  who  prided  herself 
upon  her  soldierly  restraint,  did  not  look  round 
from  her  wheel  as  the  pair  entered  the  car,  but 
she  heard  her  employer  say  : 

"  You  can  drop  me  at  the  office,  Eric,  and  the 
car  will  take  you  on  to  the  club." 

Eric  Bethune's  voice  replied  that  this  arrange- 
ment would  suit  its  owner  top-hole. 

When  Lord  Eskerley  alighted  at  Whitehall 
Gardens  he  turned  and  addressed  Marjorie. 

"  Habakkuk,"  he  announced,  "  inside  the  car  I 
have  left  a  D.S.O.  on  a  fortnight's  leave.  Please 
deposit  him  at  the  Army  and  Navy  Club  in  Pall 
Mall.  He  is  a  Scotsman,  so  there  will  be  no 
gratuities." 

"  Very  good,  my  lord,"  replied  Marjorie,  look- 
ing rigidly  to  her  front.  She  and  the  old  gentle- 
man made  quite  a  speciality  of  these  solemn  little 
pleasantries. 


DUET  135 

The  portals  of  the  Ministry  had  hardly  closed 
upon  the  Minister  when  his  guest  emerged  from 
within  the  interior  of  the  car  and  climbed  into 
the  front  seat  beside  Marjorie. 

"  May  I  come  and  sit  here  ? "  asked  Eric, 
shaking  hands.  "I  recognised  your  back  view 
through  the  front  window-glass." 

"It's  against  regulations,"  replied  Marjorie, 
smiling,  "  but  I  can't  disobey  a  colonel.  Besides, 
I  want  to  hear  all  about  the  Western  Front. 
How  are  the  Royal  Covenanters  ? " 

"I  am  commanding  the  Second  Battalion 
now,"  replied  Eric.  "  I  have  been  with  them  since 
October." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Marjorie  thoughtlessly. 

"  How  did  you  know  ? "  asked  Eric,  not 
altogether  displeased. 

Marjorie,  carefully  negotiating  the  cross-cur- 
rents of  Trafalgar  Square,  bit  her  lip.  She  was 
beginning  to  give  herself  away  already.  But  she 
replied,  looking  steadily  before  her  : 

"  I  get  letters  sometimes." 

"  I  hope  your  correspondents  report  favourably 
on  me,"  said  Eric  lightly.  "  Do  you  know  many 
of  my  officers  ? " 

"Not  many — now.  Let  me  see."  Marjorie 
decided  swiftly  not  to  be  evasive,  but  to  reply  to 


136  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Eric's  naive  inquisitiveness  as  naturally  as  pos- 
sible. "  Major  Laing — I  have  met  him  once  or 
twice.  Is  he  still  with  you  ? " 

" '  Old  Leathery '  ?  Yes.  He  goes  on  for  ever. 
Who  else  ? " 

"  One  hardly  likes  to  ask  these  days,  for  fear  — 
you  know  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  we've  been  lucky  lately. 
We  are  in  a  quiet  sector  of  the  line.  We  have  had 
no  officer  casualties  for  two  months.  Wait  while 
I  touch  wood  ! "  He  tapped  the  mahogany  dash- 
board. "Do  you  know  Kilbride,  my  adjutant  ? " 
"I  don't  think  so." 

"He's  a  stout  fellow.  Let  me  see.  Do  you 
know  young  Birnie  ?  He  comes  from  your  part 
of  the  world,  and  mine." 

"Yes,  I  know  him,"  said  Marjorie.  "Is  he 
quite  well  ?  "  For  the  life  of  her  she  could  not 
help  asking. 

"Yes,  he's  all  right."  Eric  gave  Marjorie  a 
sudden  sidelong  glance.  He  possessed  the  curios- 
ity of  a  child,  and  not  a  little  of  a  child's  jealousy. 
He  had  certain  things  in  mind  —  rumours,  nods, 
innuendoes,  elephantine  jests  in  the  mess.  Mar- 
jorie's  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  upon  the  road 
ahead  of  her,  and  her  face  expressed  nothing 
more  than  polite  interest.  But  if  Eric  had  been 


DUET  137 

a  really  observant  person — a  woman,  for  in- 
stance—  he  would  have  noticed  that  her  hands 
were  gripping  the  steering-wheel  until  the  nails 
were  white. 

"  Whom  else  do  you  know  ? "  he  continued. 
"  Garry — Balfour — Carruthers — little  Cowie  ? " 

"No."  Marjorie  knew  none  of  these.  They 
were  a  later  vintage. 

"Laing  and  Birnie  seem  to  be  all  of  your 
friends  that  are  left,"  said  Eric.  "Which  of 
them  is  your  correspondent  ?  Not  old  Leathery, 
surely?" 

"  No  ;  Mr.  Birnie.  We  are  quite  old  acquaint- 
ances," said  Marjorie,  thoroughly  annoyed  at  the 
unfair  tactics  which  had  isolated  Roy. 

"Well,  all  that  I  can  say  is  that  I  am  thor- 
oughly jealous  of  Master  Birnie  ! "  announced 
Eric,  smiling.  "  Now  tell  me  all  about  yourself. 
What  are  you  doing  here  in  London,  driving  a 
car?" 

"  Here  is  your  club,"  said  Marjorie,  putting  on 
her  brake. 

"  Confound  it ! "  Eric's  annoyance  was  quite 
genuine.  "We  had  so  much  to  discuss.  Can't 
you  lunch  with  me  somewhere  ? " 

"  I  never  know  when  I  shall  lunch.  It  depends 
on  Lord  Eskerley." 


138  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  Well,  can  you  dine  ?  Surely  you  don't  work 
all  night  as  well ! ' 

Marjorie  hesitated.  As  it  happened,  she  was 
free  that  evening,  for  she  knew  that  two  cabinet 
ministers  were  dining  and  conferring  with  her 
employer.  There  was  no  reason  whatever  why 
she  should  not  accept  Eric's  invitation.  But  for 
a  moment  some  instinct  held  her  back.  Then  she 
thought  of  the  eternal  solitude  of  the  flat. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said.    "  I  will." 

They  dined  together  and  went  to  a  play.  Eric 
made  a  charming  host  and  a  decorative  escort. 
For  the  rest  of  the  week — he  was  spending  six 
days  of  his  leave  with  Lord  Eskerley  —  Marjorie 
saw  him  constantly.  She  drove  him  about  Lon- 
don, and  they  went  upon  more  than  one  exhilarat- 
ing excursion  together.  By  the  time  that  Eric 
departed  to  Scotland  to  visit  Buckholm  she  knew 
all  about  Jhe  regiment  —  its  exploits,  its  smart- 
ness, even  its  private  jokes.  Her  general 
impression  was  that  the  regiment  had  improved 
greatly  since  Colonel  Bethune  had  taken  com- 
mand. 

On  the  subject  of  Roy,  both  exhibited  con- 
siderable reticence.  When  Eric  mentioned  his 
name,  he  did  so  in  a  manner  which  jarred  — 
"  Your  little  friend  Birnie  "  ;  "  Cowie,  Douglas, 


DUET  139 

Birnie,  and  other  riff-raff  of  the  mess."  Colonel 
Bethune  might  almost  have  been  trying  to  belittle 
Roy  intentionally.  So  Marjorie,  afraid  of  losing 
her  temper  and  giving  away  the  position,  care- 
fully avoided  Roy  as  a  topic  —  an  omission  which 
Eric  may  or  may  not  have  noted,  but  made  no 
attempt  to  correct. 

But  the  week  was  soon  over,  and  Colonel 
Bethune  and  cheery  nights  out  were  no  more. 
Marjorie  fell  back  into  the  old  routine  with  an 
inevitable  sense  of  reaction.  She  realised  next 
afternoon,  as  she  sat  waiting  in  the  rain  at  her 
wheel  in  Curzon  Street,  how  improvident  it  is  to 
accept  happiness  or  distraction  from  sources  out- 
side one's  normal  environment.  She  knew  now 
that  the  only  permanent  happiness  is  the  happi- 
ness that  comes  from  common  things.  More  than 
ever  she  yearned  in  her  heart  for  a  regular  com- 
panion—  a  crony,  a  confidant,  a  pal — as  lively 
and  as  "  safe  "  as  the  companion  she  had  just  lost. 

As  noted  above,  it  was  raining — raining  on  a 
dismal  afternoon  in  March.  It  had  been  an 
anxious  and  busy  week,  for  the  Boche  had  fallen 
like  an  avalanche  upon  Verdun,  and  the  French 
resistance  was  in  the  preliminary  and  uncertain 
stages  of  what  was  to  prove  one  of  the  most  heroic 
defensive  actions  in  history.  Allied  Councils  of 


140  THE  WILLING  HOUSE 

War  had  been  frequent,  and  Lord  Eskerley's 
department  had  been  heavily  engaged. 

Word  had  just  been  sent  out  to  Marjorie  that 
his  lordship  would  be  detained  another  hour  at 
least,  and  that  Miss  Clegg,  if  she  pleased,  was  at 
liberty  to  take  the  car  back  to  the  garage.  But 
Miss  Clegg  was  pleased  to  remain  where  she  was. 
She  sat  on,  with  the  rain  dripping  off  her  peaked 
cap  and  down  the  bridge  of  her  nose,  sedulously 
nursing  a  theory  that  in  so  doing  she  was  getting 
a  little  nearer  to  the  Western  Front. 

It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  Suddenly,  from 
round  the  corner  of  Queen  Street,  there  came  to 
Marjorie  a  new  factor  in  her  life — a  humid  but 
quite  alluring  vision  of  attenuated  skirt,  black 
silk  stockings,  and  inadequate  fur  stole.  The  rain 
was  working  its  will  upon  the  vision  :  she  had 
not  even  an  umbrella.  But  she  pattered  bravely 
along  upon  her  absurd  heels,  taking  what  shelter 
the  lee  of  the  houses  afforded,  and  keeping  her 
head  well  down — presumably  for  reasons  con- 
nected with  her  dazzling  complexion. 

As  she  passed  Marjorie  she  looked  up,  and 
Marjorie  saw  that  she  was  little  more  than  a  child, 
and  a  not  very  robust  child  at  that.  With  Mar- 
jorie, to  think  was  to  act. 

"  I  say  !   Wait  a  minute  ! "  she  cried,  and  began 


DUET  141 

to  rummage  under  the  cushion  of  her  seat,  extract- 
ing ultimately  a  spare  raincoat  of  her  own. 

"You  must  put  this  on,"  she  announced  to  the 
girl :  "you  are  soaking."  She  bustled  her  new 
protegee  into  the  garment  without  waiting  for 
permission.  Then  another  thought  occurred  to 
her. 

"  I  have  half  an  hour  to  spare,"  she  said. 
"May  I  take  you  anywhere?  Nobody" — in- 
dicating her  employer's  mausoleum-like  residence 
—  "will  mind." 

Appealing  blue  eyes  looked  up  at  her.  An 
enormous  but  attractive  mouth  broke  into  a 
grateful  smile. 

"  It's  jolly  decent  of  you,"  said  a  voice  of  in- 
credible childishness.  "Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Rather!"  said  Marjorie.  "Will  you  get 
inside,  or  sit  by  me  ? " 

"  By  you,  please." 

"All  right!    Come  along!" 

Marjorie  cranked  her  engine,  and  took  her 
place  at  the  wheel.  Her  new  little  friend 
snuggled  down  beside  her. 

"  You  are  strong  ! "  she  said  admiringly.  "  And 
yet  you  don't  look  very  hefty.  Your  hands  are 
lovely.  How  do  you  keep  them  so  nice,  doing 
this  kind  of  work  ? " 


142  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"They  are  my  vanity  1"  laughed  Marjorie. 
"  I  sit  up  half  the  night  trying  to  keep  my  nails 
in  order.  I  wonder  if  it's  worth  while  :  I  some- 
times feel  inclined  to  let  them  rip  —  for  the  dura- 
tion !  Where  can  I  take  you  ? " 

"  The  Imperial  Theatre,  if  you  don't  mind.  I 
have  a  rehearsal  at  three,  and  it's  after  that  now. 
I  shall  get  a  telling-off,  as  usual,  I  suppose.  Well, 
I'm  not  worrying  :  such  is  life  ! " 

"Are  you  on  the  stage?"  asked  Marjorie, 
genuinely  thrilled. 

"  Yes.  We  open  in  about  a  month,  with  a  new 
musical  show." 

"What's  it  called?" 

"  I  never  can  remember  :  they  change  the  title 
about  once  a  day.  Not  that  it  really  matters. 
'Too  Many  Girls '  is  the  latest ;  and  pretty  suit- 
able, too  !  My  dear,  you  simply  can't  get  men  for 
the  theatre  nowadays  !  The  good  ones  have  all 
joined  up,  and  the  rotters  daren't  walk  on.  You 
ought  to  see  our  chorus  men  !  They  are  all  about 
seventy,  or  else  they  have  one  lung,  or  one  rib,  or 
one  ear,  or  something.  Still,  we  carry  on  some- 
how. Are  you  driving  a  car  for  war  work  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  really  feel  that  I  ought  to  be 
doing  it;  it's  too  much  like  fun.  I  was  in  a 
canteen  at  first,  but  I  got  rather  run  down  and 


DUET  14S 

hard  up,  and  I  was  offered  this  job  as  a  chauffeur, 
so  I  took  it.  I  think  I  should  go  back  to  the 
canteen  if  I  could  afford  it.  I  never  see  any 
soldiers  now.  At  the  canteen  one  could  do  some- 
thing for  them,  poor  things." 

"They're  lambs!"  agreed  the  passenger — 
"especially  the  young  officers.  Are  you  en- 
gaged?" 

Marjorie,  very  much  occupied  in  negotiating 
Piccadilly  Circus,  nodded. 

"An  officer?" 

Marjorie  nodded  again. 

"  My  boy's  an  officer,  too.  What's  your  name, 
by  the  way  ? " 

"Marjorie  Clegg." 

"Mine's  Liss  Lyle.  (It's  Elizabeth  Leek 
really,  but  in  the  profession  one  has  to  think  of 
something  better  than  that.)  There's  the  Im- 
perial there.  Just  shake  me  off  at  the  front 
entrance,  and  I'll  slip  round  to  the  stage  door." 

"  Oh,  but  I  want  to  drive  you  right  up  to  the 
stage  door!"  said  Marjorie  frankly.  "It  will 
be  wonderful ! " 

The  little  woman  of  the  world  at  her  side 
smiled  indulgently. 

"  Very  well  then,  dear,  you  shall !  Round  that 
corner,  and  then  round  again." 


144  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Mar  jorie  set  down  her  passenger  with  a  genuine 
pang.  She  was  certain  now  what  was  wrong  in 
her  life.  She  had  no  one  to  gossip  with. 

The  two  girls  shook  hands. 

"  Thanks  awfully  ! "  said  Liss.  "Also  for  Little 
Willie  Waterproof."  She  took  off  the  raincoat. 

"  Stick  to  it  just  now,"  said  Marjorie  :  "  it  may 
he  raining  when  you  come  out." 

"  Can  I  ?  I  love  you  for  that.  I'll  come  round 
and  leave  it  for  you  somewhere,  shall  I  ? " 

Marjorie  dived  impulsively  into  the  opening 
offered. 

"  Come  to-night ! "  she  said.  "  We  might  go 
and  have  some  dinner  somewhere.  I  can  always 
get  off  for  an  hour — sometimes  for  the  whole 
evening.  I  have  a  lot  of  evenings  to  myself,"  she 
added. 

Ultimately  the  pair  dined  together,  chez  Lyons, 
and  Marjorie  spent  her  happiest  hour  since  her 
invasion  of  London.  She  found  her  little  friend 
a  characteristic  medley  of  childishness  and  ma- 
turity—  featherheaded,  affectionate,  naive,  with 
far  more  worldly  wisdom  than  herself,  yet  with  all 
a  child's  dread  of  being  laughed  at  for  ignorance. 

She  came  from  Finchley  —  and  apologised  for 
doing  so.  She  had  no  mother,  and  her  father, 


DUET  145 

overburdened,  it  seemed,  with  daughters,  had 
raised  no  particular  objection  to  Miss  Elizabeth's 
theatrical  predilections.  She  was  at  present  living 
at  a  boarding-house  near  Paddington.  Did  not 
like  it  much.  Said  so  —  apparently  to  every  one, 
including  the  other  boarders.  But  nothing 
troubled  her  long.  Her  thoughts,  birdlike,  hopped 
to  another  twig,  and  her  cheery  little  song  of  life 
was  resumed.  She  was  not  deeply  concerned 
with  how  and  why.  She  pecked  carelessly  here 
and  there  at  what  fortune  offered,  without  paus- 
ing to  reason  why  or  count  the  cost ;  but  so  far 
appeared  instinctively  to  have  avoided  what  was 
unwholesome.  Her  chief  passions  were  dress, 
gossip,  and  expensive  confectionery.  Her  con- 
versation was  a  blend  of  theatrical  shop  and 
military  slang — including  many  parrot-phrases 
which  could  have  conveyed  no  meaning  to  her 
whatever — and  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  a 
certain  confiding  frankness  and  a  glorious  con- 
tempt for  what  Mr.  Mantalini  would  have  called 
"  demnition  details." 

"  You  must  meet  my  boy,"  she  said  to  Marjorie, 
as  they  walked  homeward.  "You'd  love  him. 
He's  a  pukka  sahib ! " 

"  What  is  his  name  ? "  asked  Marjorie. 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  of  his  name,"  replied  Miss 


146  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Lyle,  with  characteristic  candour  ;  "  but  I  think 
he's  in  the  Yeomanry.  His  Christian  name's 
Leonard.  I  met  him  with  two  other  fellows  at  a 
party,  and  I  got  all  their  surnames  mixed  up  —  I 
always  do  —  and  I  can  never  remember  which  of 
the  three  is  his." 

"You  will  find  out  before  you  marry  him  ?" 
suggested  Marjorie  respectfully. 

"  Oh,  rather  !  But  there's  plenty  of  time  for 
that.  Besides,  he's  going  out  soon,  and  then  it 
won't  matter." 

"It  won't  matter?" 

"  No.  We  are  not  so  potty  about  one  another 
as  all  that.  I  could  see  the  lad  wanted  to  be 
engaged  —  after  all,  poor  things,  they  can't  afford 
to  wait,  these  days  —  so  I  let  him.  He's  nice,  and 
clean,  and  it  looks  well  to  be  called  for  after 
rehearsal.  I  shall  miss  him  awfully  when  he  goes. 
It's  rotten  to  be  by  yourself  in  this  world — isn't 
it  ? "  A  pair  of  pathetic  eyes  were  upturned  to 
Marjorie's. 

Next  moment  Marjorie's  arm  was  round  the 
waif's  shoulders. 

"  Liss,  you  shall  come  and  live  with  me  1 "  she 
said  impulsively. 

"  Righto  ! "  replied  Liss.  "  I  was  dying  to  be 
asked,  but  it  seemed  too  wonderful  to  be  possible. 


DUET  147 

I  shall  have  to  sponge  on  you  for  a  bit,  though. 
I  haven't  a  bean  until  the  show  opens." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Marjorie. 

"  Now,  where  shall  we  have  our  dug-out  ? " 
asked  Liss,  becoming  terribly  busy. 

The  pair  spent  a  rapturous  evening  building 
castles  in  Kensington. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CHORUS 

I 

FINALLY  they  found  an  eyrie  —  a  flat,  some- 
where in  the  sky  at  the  back  of  Victoria  Street, 
consisting  of  a  big  bedroom,  a  tiny  sitting-room, 
a  gas  stove,  and  a  surprisingly  modern  bath.  They 
bought  furniture  at  unpretentious  establishments 
in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  laying  their  own 
carpets  and  hanging  their  own  curtains.  (The 
latter  were  the  only  really  essential  articles  of 
domestic  furniture  in  those  days  of  aerial  visita- 
tion.) Marjorie  hung  up  a  few  reprints  and 
photographs  ;  Liss  contributed  a  portrait  of  her 
nebulous  and  anonymous  fiance,  together  with 
seventeen  picture  post  cards  of  stage  celebrities  ; 
and  the  ideal  home  was  opened. 

Still,  Marjorie's  hunt  for  happiness  was  not  yet 
complete.  There  were  two  crumpled  rose-leaves. 
Firstly,  her  implacable  conscience  continued  to 
inform  her  that  her  war  work  was  too  easy. 
Secondly,  her  evenings  were  as  lonely  as  ever. 
As  soon  as  rehearsals  finished,  and  "Too  Many 
Girls  "  started  upon  its  nightly  and  tumultuous 


CHORUS  149 

presentation,  Liss  disappeared  regularly  every 
evening  about  half -past  six  ;  to  return,  sometimes 
exhilarated,  sometimes  gloomy,  sometimes  affec- 
tionate, sometimes  quarrelsome,  but  invariably 
hungry  and  inexorably  talkative,  about  mid- 
night. Supper  was  then  served.  The  two  ladies 
rarely  ate  at  a  table  :  as  already  noted,  the  key- 
note of  a  feminine  meal  is  its  passionate  avoidance 
of  anything  in  the  shape  of  ceremonial  routine. 
As  often  as  not  Mar  j  orie  would  take  her  supper  to 
bed  with  her,  while  Liss,  munching  and  babbling, 
plied  back  and  forth  between  the  sitting-room 
and  bedroom,  in  progressive  stages  of  disrobe- 
ment,  bearing  fresh  supplies  and  relating  the 
experiences  of  the  day  —  continuing  long  after 
she  had  shed  her  flimsy  garments  over  two  rooms 
and  a  vestibule,  arrayed  herself  in  night  attire, 
and  crawled  into  bed. 

"My  dear,  we  had  the  most  wonderful  house 
to-night.  Seven  legitimate  calls  after  the  first 
act !  What  an  audience  these  boys  on  leave 
make  !  (Here  are  a  couple  of  sardines  :  the 
bloater  paste  is  nah-poo.)  They  gave  Phyllis 
Lane  such  a  reception  !  She  had  to  do  the  dance 
after  'Pull  Up  your  Socks  !'  three  times  ;  (and 
if  you  want  any  more  cocoa  tell  me,  because  I  am 
going  to  turn  out  the  gas-ring. )  Her  husband  has 


ISO  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

been  mentioned  in  dispatches.  Leonard  wasn't 
in  front  to-night  —  selfish  pig  !  I'll  tell  him  off  for 
that,  to-morrow.  (Oh,  you  darling,  did  you  put 
this  hot-wat«r-bottle  in  my  bed?  I  must  give 
you  a  kiss  for  that.  There  !  No,  it  won't  hurt 
you,  it's  only  lip  salve.)  Mr.  Lee  came  behind 
to-night,  and  spoke  to  us  all.  Said  the  show  was 
a  credit  to  everybody,  and  he  was  very  pleased  to 
hear  how  brave  we  all  were  during  the  raid  the 
other  night.  Yes,  he's  the  managing  director. 
(Have  you  finished  ?  Very  well,  then  !  Give 
me  the  tray.  Here's  a  cigarette  for  you. )  By  the 
way,  I  was  talking  to  Uncle  Ga-Ga  to-night.  Oh, 
didn't  I  tell  you  about  him  ?  He's  one  of  the 
chorus  gentlemen  —  about  a  hundred  years  old, 
and  simply  mad  to  get  into  the  war.  But  they 
won't  take  him.  He  keeps  changing  his  name, 
and  dyeing  his  hair  a  fresh  colour,  and  trying 
again  ;  but  they  turn  him  down  every  time. 
Seems  queer,  doesn't  it,  that  when  a  man  wants 
to  go  he  can't,  while  there  are  so  many  who  should 
and  won't  ?  (Can  I  use  your  cold  cream,  dear  ? 
I  can't  find  mine. )  Lee  said  they  would  probably 
put  on  a  second  edition  about  August :  we  start 
rehearsing  the  new  numbers  next  week.  Why 
don't  you  come  and  get  a  job  in  the  chorus  ?  It 
wouldn't  interfere  with  your  other  work.  There's 


CHORUS  151 

two  or  three  other  girls  doing  the  same  as  you,  and 
Lee  lets  them  off  with  one  matinee  a  week.  He's 
very  patriotic.  A-a-a-h  !  Oo-oo-oo  !  Ee-ee-ee  ! 
What  a  lovely  warm  bed  !  Well,  as  I  was  saying 
—  Marjorie  Clegg,  what  is  the  use  of  my  wearing 
myself  to  a  shadow  waiting  on  you  at  supper 
and  then  the  moment  I  get  into  bed  and  begin  to 
chat  for  a  couple  of  minutes  before  lights  out 
you  start  snoring  like  a  grampus  ?  Very  well, 
have  it  your  own  way.  Live  and  let  live,  I  say. 
.  .  .  That's  all.  .  .  .  As  for  that  little  toad 
Leonard—!  .  .  ." 

Miss  Lyle's  baby  eyes  closed,  her  small  nose 
buried  itself  in  the  pillow,  and  her  little  tongue 
was  still  for  several  hours. 

But  Marjorie  was  not  asleep.  She  lay  awake 
thinking,  while  outside  London,  shrouded  in  the 
blackest  obscurity,  snatched  such  slumber  as  that 
endless,  flaring,  muttering  line  of  outposts  in 
Flanders  could  guarantee.  For  all  her  splendid 
vitality,  Marjorie  was  a  highly-strung  girl — with 
a  conscience.  That  morning  Colonel  Bethune, 
passing  through  London  from  Scotland  on  his 
way  back  to  the  Western  Front,  had  invited  her 
to  a  "farewell  luncheon."  She  had  accepted, 
gladly  —  and  had  repented  ever  since.  For  be- 
hold, over  the  coffee,  Colonel  Bethune  had  asked 
her  to  marry  him  ! 


152  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

He  had  asked  her  very  charmingly,  and  with 
obvious  confidence  —  a  combination  which  made 
it  an  ungrateful  and  difficult  business  to  say  no 
without  offence.  At  first  Marjorie  had  been 
too  taken  back  to  say  anything  at  all.  .When  her 
answer  came  its  sincerity  was  unmistakable  ;  and 
poor,  vain  Eric  was  obviously  and  deeply  morti- 
fied. With  a  vague  idea  of  consoling  him,  she 
had  mentioned  that  her  affections  were  already 
engaged.  He  had  asked  her  for  no  name,  but 
she  knew  that  it  had  been  written  in  her  face,  and 
that  Eric  had  read  it  there.  Then  a  new  and 
disappointing  characteristic  of  the  man  had 
cropped  out.  He  had  turned  and  reproached  her 

—  had  told  her  that  she  had  flirted  with  him,  and 
led  him  on  —  which  was  a  base  lie.    But  for  all 
that,  she  was  filled  with  remorse.    In  her  selfish 
desire  for  a  good  time  she  had  been  thoughtlessly 
inconsiderate  of  Colonel  Bethune,  and  almost 
disloyal  to  Roy. 

She  and  her  host  had  parted  miserably  ten 
minutes  later,  each  having  learned  a  bitter  lesson 

—  Eric,  that  in  the  field  of  love,  especially  under 
stress  of  war,  callow  youth  can  be  more  than  a 
match  for  dazzling  maturity ;     Marjorie,  that 
where  a  pretty  girl  is  concerned  no  man  can  be 
regarded  as  '  safe '  until  he  is  dead. 


CHORUS  153 

Well,  she  would  expiate  her  fault  in  the  only 
way  she  knew.  This  decided,  she  fell  asleep. 

ii 

NEXT  morning  Marjorie,  depositing  her  noble 
employer  upon  the  steps  of  the  Ministry  of  In- 
telligence, inquired  : 

"  May  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment,  sometime, 
Lord  Eskerley  ? " 

"Twelve-twenty-five,"  was  the  prompt  reply — 
"after  Downing  Street  and  before  signatures. 
But  I  will  not  exert  my  influence  to  have  him 
made  Commander-in-Chief  ! " 

At  twelve-twenty  Marjorie  presented  herself 
to  Mr.  Meadows,  in  the  secretary's  room,  and 
was  passed  through  double  doors  into  the  presence 
of  the  minister.  His  lordship  looked  up  over  his 
spectacles  and  indicated  a  chair. 

"  Habakkuk  !  Good  !  Sit  down.  Four-and- 
a-half  minutes  !  Well  ? " 

"I  want  to  say,"  announced  Marjorie,  plung- 
ing head  foremost  into  her  confession,  "that  I 
can't  stay  here  any  longer." 

"Why?" 

"  I  am  not  happy  in  my  mind.  I  must  go 
away." 

"  Good  gracious  !     Don't  say  Meadows  has 


154  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

fallen  in  love  with  you  !  I  will  not  permit  my 
subordinates  to  encroach  upon  my  prerogatives  ! 
No — not  that  ?  Proceed,  then  ! " 

"I  think  I  ought  to  leave  you,"  Marjorie 
continued,  quite  unmoved  by  her  employer's 
senile  quips,  "because  I  am  having  too  good  a 
time.  I  have  been  feeling  all  along  that  I  ought 
to  be  doing  something  else." 

"  So  I  have  observed.    Well  ? " 

"  The  only  trouble  is  that  if  I  go  back  to  the 
canteen  work  (where  they  want  my  help  very 
badly),  I  shan't  get  paid  for  it;  and  I  can't 
afford  to  work  without  pay  of  some  kind.  I  have 
a  small  allowance  from  home,  but  it  doesn't  go 
far,  and  the  girl  I  share  a  flat  with  was  pretty 
hard  up  when  I  first  picked  —  became  acquainted 
with  her." 

"  Oh  !  Ah  !  So  you  keep  a  foundling  hos- 
pital, too  ? " 

"  Only  one  ! "  explained  Marjorie.  "  She's  a 
dear,"  she  added  warmly.  "  She's  on  the  stage. 
She  was  badly  in  debt  before  the  new  piece 
started — they  don't  get  paid  during  rehearsals, 
you  see  —  and  she  is  only  just  beginning  to  get 
on  her  feet  again  ;  so  I  can't  afford  to  work  for 
nothing  during  the  day  just  now,  unless  —  " 

"  Unless  you  go  on  the  stage  yourself  at  night  ? 
Is  that  it,  O  Capable  de  tout  ?" 


CHORUS  155 

"  I  was  thinking  of  it,"  confessed  Marjorie  ; 
"  but  I  don't  know  how  you  guessed." 

"  It's  the  first  thing  every  pretty  girl  thinks  of 
when  confronted  with  the  necessity  of  earning  a 
living.  Go  on." 

"And  I  want  to  ask  you  :  Is  it  playing  the 
game  to  be  on  the  stage  at  all  in  war  time  ?  I 
mean,  ought  the  men  to  be  encouraged  to  go  to 
revues,  and  things  like  that,  when  they  are  on 
leave  ?  Is  it  all  wrong,  and  demoralising,  and 
unpatriotic,  as  some  people  say  ? " 
Lord  Eskerley  sat  up,  and  took  off  his  spectacles. 

"Unpatriotic  fiddlesticks  ! "  he  remarked  with 
great  vigour.  "  In  war  time  there  are  just  three 
things  that  matter.  The  first  is  morale.  I  have 
forgotten  the  other  two.  The  maintenance  of 
purely  military  morale  can  safely  be  left  in  mili- 
tary hands  ;  but  civilian  morale  —  and  that  in- 
cludes the  morale  of  the  men  on  leave  of  course, 
rests  mainly  on  the  triple  foundation  of  the 
Church,  the  Press,  and  the  Stage  ;  and,  as  things 
are  to-day,  I  am  not  sure  that  the  Stage  doesn't 
have  the  biggest  say  in  the  whole  business. 
(Don't  tell  Doctor  Chirnside  I  said  that,  will 
you  ?)  So  you  are  thinking  of  joining  your 
foundling  behind  the  footlights.  Chorus,  I  pre- 
sume ? " 


156  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"Yes.  They  would  give  me  three  pounds  a 
week." 

"  They  would  get  you  cheap  1  And  you  want 
me  to  satisfy  your  conscience  that  the  life  of  a 
galley-slave  in  a  vitiated  atmosphere  all  day, 
followed  by  vocal  and  calisthenic  exercises  in  an 
even  more  vitiated  atmosphere  for  three  hours 
every  night,  is  a  sufficiently  close  approach  to 
hard  work  to  exonerate  you  from  all  suspicion  of 
lukewarmness  with  regard  to  the  war  ? "  The  old 
man  stood  up  and  shook  hands.  ' '  Donna  Quixota 
Habakkuk,  the  certificate  is  granted  !  I  suppose 
you  will  stay  on  for  a  week  or  two,  until  I  find 
a  successor — I  won't  say  a  substitute?  Don't 
forget  me,  altogether.  Come  and  see  me  some- 
times. I  am  less  busy,  and  more  solitary,  than 
you  suppose.  You  know  when  to  come  :  you 
are  familiar  with  my  goings  out  and  comings  in. 
And  — good  luck,  my  dear  ! " 

in 

LIFE  behind  the  scenes,  as  usual,  falsified  expecta- 
tion. Marjorie's  first  visit  to  the  theatre  was 
paid  a  few  weeks  after  her  interview  with  Lord 
Eskerley.  They  entered  by  the  stage-door,  Liss 
explaining  to  a  taciturn  but  benevolently  disposed 
person  in  a  glass  box,  whose  name  appeared  to 


CHORUS  157 

be  "  Mac,"  that  her  companion  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  Mr.  Lee.  Thereafter,  Marjorie  was 
conducted  through  an  iron  door,  which  com- 
manded the  thoughtless,  by  stencilled  legend,  to 
close  it  gently  ;  through  a  mass  of  ghostly 
scenery,  past  whitewashed  walls  bearing  notices 
extolling  the  virtues  of  Silence  ;  and  out  through 
another  iron  door  (marked,  somewhat  paradoxi- 
cally, "Not  an  exit")  into  the  auditorium, 
rendered  dimly  visible  by  the  overflow  of  light 
from  an  economically-illuminated  stage. 

Liss  turned  back  the  holland  covering  from 
two  stalls  at  the  end  of  a  retired  row. 

"  Sit  there,  dear,"  she  said.  "  I  will  grab  hold 
of  old  Lee  some  time,  and  tell  him  you  are  here. 
I  can  sit  with  you  for  a  bit.  This  rehearsal  is 
for  principals  ;  the  chorus  aren't  called  until 
twelve." 

The  rehearsal  of  the  principals  consisted,  for 
the  moment,  of  an  altercation  between  a  fat  man, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  and  the 
musical  director,  sitting  at  his  desk  in  the  or- 
chestra. It  was  a  most  friendly — one  might 
almost  call  it  an  affectionate  —  altercation.  No 
epithet  ever  fell  to  a  lower  level  of  mutual  esteem 
than  "Old  Boy  !"  or  "Old  Man  !"  — or,  under 
extreme  provocation,  "  Dear  Old  Boy  ! "  As  is 


158  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

not  unusual  in  these  cases,  it  was  difficult  for  the 
casual  outsider  to  discover  : 

( a )  What  the  argument  was  about. 

(b)  Which  side  of  the  argument  was  being 
sustained  by  whom. 

In  the  front  row  of  the  stalls  stood  an  ascetic- 
looking  man  in  black  tortoise-shell  spectacles, 
apparently  acting  as  umpire.  Seated  upon  a 
partially  dismantled  throne  beside  a  step-ladder, 
up  stage,  sat  a  pretty  girl  in  a  pink  tam-o'-shanter, 
placidly  perusing  a  crumpled  brown-paper-cov- 
ered manuscript.  Other  persons  were  dotted 
about  the  auditorium  —  fat  men,  cadaverous 
men  ;  men  with  tortoise-shell  spectacles,  and  men 
without ;  an  occasional  female.  All  were  con- 
ferring in  monotone.  Round  the  bare  walls  of 
the  stage,  at  present  destitute  of  scenery,  sat  the 
ladies  of  the  chorus,  most  of  them  wearing 
rehearsal  dresses  of  unpretentious  design  — 
knitting  socks  of  khaki,  and  occasionally  exchang- 
ing a  guarded  confidence.  Altogether  the 
atmosphere  struck  Marjorie  as  more  domestic 
than  theatrical  —  almost  ecclesiastical  in  its  dull- 
ness and  drowsiness. 

"Who  are  these  people  sitting  about  in  the 
stalls  ? "  she  asked  Liss. 

"  Oh,  just  odds  and  ends !    The  author,  and 


CHORUS  159 

the  lyric  writers,  and  extra  lyric  writers,  and 
costumiers,  and  photographers,  and  people  like 
that — all  waiting  to  catch  Mr.  Lee,  and  start  an 
argument  with  him  about  something.  That's 
Tubby  Ames  on  the  stage.  He's  having  a  row 
with  Phil  Kay  ;  he  has  about  two  a  week.  I  bet 
you  he's  trying  to  get  Phyllis  Lane's  song  cut. 
( That's  her,  in  the  pink  tarn  ;  she's  sweet. )  It's 
been  going  too  well  lately.  Tubby  was  kept 
waiting  for  his  entrance  in  the  Second  Act  last 
night  while  she  did  her  third  encore  dance.  Trust 
Tubby  to  step  on  other  people's  fat !  Yes,  I 
thought  so." 

The  comedian's  voice  was  heard  again.  The 
gist  of  the  dispute  was  emerging  from  a  cloud  of 
verbiage. 

"  Phil,  dear  old  man,"  he  exclaimed  earnestly, 
"I  should  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
interfere  with  a  brother  or  sister  artist ;  but  really, 
I  am  only  saying  what  every  one  feels.  After 
all,  we  must  all  pull  together  in  these  days,  and 
I  feel  instinctively  that  unless  the  way  is  kept 
ab-so-lute-ty  clear  for  that  entrance  of  mine,  the 
action  will  drop  —  and  flop  goes  your  Second 
Act !  And  where  are  you  then  ? "  He  leaned 
right  over  the  footlights. 

The  conductor,  apparently  a  man  of  peace, 
flinched  visibly. 


160  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  Old  boy,"  he  began,  "  it's  this  way.  I  quite 
see  your  point — " 

The  comedian  pressed  his  advantage  swiftly. 

"I  thought  you  would,"  he  said.  "I  have 
had  a  good  many  years'  experience  in  this  sort 
of  work — more  than  you,  perhaps.  For  instance, 
when  I  was  with  Charles  Wyndham  —  " 

"  It's  the  Story  of  his  Life  ! "  whispered  Liss 
despairingly.  "We  get  it  about  every  second 
rehearsal.  He's  out  of  pantomime,  really.  It's 
only  because  there's  nobody  else  to  be  had  that 
he's  here  at  all.  He  has  varicose  veins,  and  —  " 

But  the  ascetic  referee  in  the  stalls  broke  in 
upon  the  autobiographist. 

"Mr.  Ames,"  he  commanded  —  his  voice  was 
strong  and  harsh,  and  was  obviously  extensively 
employed  in  shouting  down  other  discordant 
noises  —  "  talk  sense  ! " 

"That's  Mr.  Lancaster,"  whispered  Liss  ex- 
citedly. "  He's  the  producer.  We  are  all  fright- 
ened to  death  of  him.  He's  a  wonder  I " 

"  Miss  Lane's  song  cannot  be  cut,"  continued 
the  wonder,  "  and  it  cannot  be  transferred  else- 
where ;  so  you  must  lump  it !  Now,  Miss  St. 
Leger,  come  on,  please,  and  try  your  '  Plum  and 
Apple '  duet  with  Mr.  Ames." 

Miss  St.  Leger,  the  leading  lady,  was  standing 


CHORUS  161 

in  the  wings.  Her  face  was  round  and  childish  ; 
her  eyes  were  brown  and  pathetic  ;  her  whole 
appearance  suggested  timidity  and  helplessness. 
Hearing  her  name  called,  she  walked  obediently 
down  to  the  footlights,  favoured  the  producer 
with  a  dazzling  smile,  and  began  : 

"  Say,  listen,  Mr.  Lancaster  !  I  got  a  kick 
coming  too  !  That  duet  I  am  putting  over  with 
Mr.  Ames  in  the  Second  Act  of  the  present  show 
is  practically  a  solo  !  When  we  started  in  singing 
it,  way  back  in  last  fall,  it  was  a  duet,  I'll  allow. 
But  somehow  I  got  a  kind  of  crowded  feeling, 
now.  I  don't  seem  to  belong  in  that  duet  when 
Mr.  Ames  is  around.  And  I  want  to  say  right 
here  that  I  am  not  going  to  stand  for  that  kind 
of  rough  stuff  any  more  ! " 

By  this  time  the  languid  chorus  were  sitting 
straight  up  on  their  chairs.  The  scattered  figures 
in  the  auditorium  had  ceased  their  muttered  in- 
cantations, and  were  leaning  forward,  all  ears. 
The  pacific  Phil  Kay  was  squirming  in  his  seat. 
Marjorie  and  Liss  gripped  hands  ecstatically ; 
the  ecclesiastical  atmosphere  had  evaporated. 

"I  understand  team  work,"  continued  the 
ethereal  Miss  St.  Leger,  "  as  well  as  any  artist ; 
and  you  won't  ever  find  me  stepping  on  any  other 
folks'  laughs  or  business.  But  one  thing  I  will 


162  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

not  do,  and  that  is  feed  fat  to  a  dub  comedian  all 
the  time — especially  a  guy  that's  too  fat  already  I " 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter  from  stage  and 
stalls.  Even  the  austere  Lancaster  grinned  sar- 
donically. Mr.  Tubby  Ames,  gaping  like  a 
stranded  fish,  surrendered  abjectly,  as  was  his 
invariable  custom  when  firmly  handled. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  with  a  pathetic  smile. 
"  Carry  on  !  Nobody  loves  a  fat  man  !  Chord, 
please!" 

Said  an  Apple  to  a  Plum  ;  — 
"  Seeing  how  this  War  has  come, 
Join  me  in  the  stew-pan,  do  !  " 

Miss  St.  Leger,  flushed  with  victory,  took  her 
demoralised  opponent  in  an  affectionate  embrace, 
and  replied : 

Said  the  Plum,  "  I  guess  I  will  ! 
I  am  fairly  stony  ;  still, 

I  will  do  my  bit,  like  you  !  " 

"There's  Mr.  Lee  now,"  said  Liss— "  just  by 
the  stalls  entrance.  Let's  catch  him  ! " 

Our  two  conspirators  descended  upon  the  great 
man.  He  proved  to  be  much  less  formidable  than 
Marjorie  had  feared. 

"We  can  make  room  for  you,  girlie,"  he  an- 
nounced paternally,  "and" — with  a  glance  at 


CHORUS  163 

Marjorie's  face  and  figure  —  "a  hundred  more 
like  you,  if  they  can  be  found,  which  I  doubt ! " 
He  patted  her  shoulder.  "  Now — where  will  you 
fit  in  ?  Let  me  think  !  You  are  too  big  to  go 
prancing  about  the  stage  with  Baby  Lyle,  and 
the  other  little  people.  Your  life's  work  is  to 
stand  well  down  stage  in  a  stunning  frock,  and 
fill  the  eye  !  Take  her  along  to  Mr.  Lancaster, 
Baby,  and  say  I  sent  you.  I  must  be  off." 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  said  Marjorie,  "that  I 
may  find  matinees  a  difficulty.  I  am  working  at 
a  canteen.  I  have  only  one  free  afternoon  a  week." 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Mr.  Lee.  "  I  believe  in 
helping  girls  who  are  doing  war  work.  I'm  a 
special  constable  myself.  Not  bad  for  an  old 
man  of  fifty-four,  eh  ?  But  we  all  try  to  do 
something  here.  Now,  run  along  to  Lancaster, 
girls  !  I  have  to  report  for  duty  at  Vine  Street 
at  three  o'clock." 

With  a  gracious  smile,  Mr.  Lee  disappeared 
through  the  stalls  entrance.  Liss  squeezed  Mar- 
jorie's hand  excitedly. 

"My  dear,  you  have  made  a  tremendous  hit 
with  him  !  He  can  be  horribly  grumpy  when  he 
likes.  Come  and  be  introduced  to  Lancaster." 

The  producer  was  found  dismissing  the  rehearsal 
of  principals.    The  plum  and  apple  had  become 


164  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

jam  in  the  last  verse,  so  both  romance  and 
patriotism  were  satisfied. 

"Very  good,"  he  said.  "It  all  goes  all  right 
now,  except  the  dance.  Mr.  Kosky  will  take  care 
of  that."  He  raised  his  voice.  "Principals, 
same  time  to-morrow  !  Good  morning,  Miss  St. 
Leger  !  Good  morning,  Tubby,  old  man  ! "  His 
voice  boomed  louder.  "  Now  then,  chorus  ladies 
and  chorus  gentlemen,  please  ! " 

The  damosels  round  the  stage  laid  down  their 
khaki  socks,  hitched  up  their  own  stockings,  and 
gathered  in  groups  in  the  wings.  Simultaneously 
a  procession  of  six  gentlemen  appeared  from  the 
direction  of  the  stage-door,  extinguishing  cigar- 
ettes. 

Liss  hurriedly  introduced  Marjorie.  Lancaster 
shook  hands. 

"  I  think  we  can  find  a  place  for  you  in  the 
show,"  he  said,  regarding  her  with  critical  ap- 
proval. "  Can  you  sing  ? " 

Marjorie,  with  a  sudden  and  incongruous  recol- 
lection of  the  harmonium  at  Netherby  on  Sunday 
afternoons,  smiled,  and  replied  that  she  could  sing 
a  little. 

"  Mr.  Kay  will  try  your  voice  after  rehearsal. 
No  previous  experience,  I  suppose  ? " 

"No." 


CHORUS  165 

"It  doesn't  matter.  You  had  better  sit  and 
watch  this  rehearsal  this  morning,  and  try  to 
learn  our  language.  Baby,  my  dear,  run  along 
and  get  into  your  place." 

Liss,  who  appeared  to  be  the  enfant  gate  of 
the  establishment,  scampered  away,  and  presently 
appeared  among  the  chattering  throng  on  the 
prompt  side.  Mr.  Lancaster  clapped  his  hands. 
There  was  silence. 

"Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  explained, 
"  we  are  going  to  try  the  first  new  number  in  the 
Second  Act  —  'Honolulu  Lulu/  Places,  please, 
and  try  to  put  some  ginger  in  it  this  time  1  You 
come  on  laughing  and  chatting.  Now  —  'com- 
mence!" He  clapped  his  hands  again.  "For 
pity's  sake,  everybody,  desist!  Gentlemen, 
gentlemen,  remember  that  you  are  happy  South 
Sea  Islanders,  without  a  care  in  the  world- — not 
welshers  coming  back  from  a  dirty  day  at  Kemp- 
ton  !  Again,  please  !  And  ladies,  don't  come 
bolting  on  in  that  panic-stricken  way.  You  aren't 
taking  shelter  from  an  air  raid  ;  you  are  young 
village  belles,  come  to  participate  in  the  Annual 
Festival  of  the  Sun  !  You  are  joyful !  You  are 
glad  !  You  are  going  to  sing  about  it !  For  the 
Lord's  sake,  smile !  Phil,  old  man,  the  symphony 
once  more,  if  you  please  !  All  come  in  at  the  end 


166  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

of  six  bars.  La-la  !  La-la  !  La-la  !  Now,  all 
together  !  No  !  no  !  no  !  710 13'  Mr.  Lancaster 
clapped  his  hands  and  beat  his  breast  alternately. 
"  Ladies,  ladies,  ladies !  Let  me  tell  you,  for  the 
last  time,  that  it  is  a  human  impossibility  to  sing 
with  the  mouth  shut !  1 1  can't  be  done !  For  gen- 
erations and  centuries  people  have  been  trying  to 
sing  out  of  their  noses,  and  their  ears,  and  the 
back  of  their  necks  ;  but  no  one  has  ever  suc- 
ceeded yet.  Open  your  little  mouths  !  Open 
them  wide  !  And  keep  them  open,  for  the  love  of 
Mike  ! " 

And  so  on,  until  a  standard  of  approximate 
harmony  was  attained. 

IV 

NEXT  day  Marjorie  walked  on  at  her  first  re- 
hearsal, and  practised  the  new  numbers  with  the 
rest.  Mr.  Lancaster's  attitude  towards  her  was 
the  same  as  Mr.  Lee's.  That  is  to  say,  he  ad- 
dressed her  much  as  an  old  gentleman  of  seventy 
might  address  a  little  girl  of  six. 

"  Now,  dear,  I  know  you  are  feeling  nervous, 
and  aren't  going  to  do  yourself  justice,  just  at 
first  —  " 

"I  am  not  a  bit  nervous,  thank  you,"  said 
Marjorie. 


CHORUS  167 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Lancaster.  "  But 
remember  that  I  understand  about  that,  and  am 
making  allowances  all  the  time.  So  don't  be 
frightened  ;  but  keep  your  head  up,  and  sing 
out,  that's  a  good  girl ! " 

"He's  a  hard  nut,"  remarked  her  next-door 
neighbour  into  her  ear  —  "  but  he  never  swears  at 
you.  At  least,  if  he  does,  he  always  apologises 
afterwards.  He's  quite  a  gentleman." 

In  a  few  days  Marjorie  was  admitted  an  ac- 
cepted member  of  the  choral  sisterhood.  She 
found  her  colleagues,  for  the  most  part,  young, 
friendly,  talkative,  excitable,  and  as  improvident 
as  grasshoppers.  Most  of  them  possessed  a  "  boy  " 
of  some  kind — usually  a  callow  subaltern  of  the 
one-star  brand,  with  a  vocabulary  largely  com- 
posed of  the  expressions  "  priceless  "  and  "  pa- 
thetic." Some  of  them  were  married.  A  few 
had  husbands  actually  out  in  France,  or  farther 
afield.  One  or  two  had  babies,  and  talked  about 
them  a  good  deal. 

Of  the  principals,  Miss  St.  Leger,  with  her 
magnetic  personality  and  tough  little  Chicago 
voice,  was  a  prime  favourite  with  everybody. 
Her  hold  over  the  audience  was  wonderful :  she 
could  galvanise  a  Wednesday  matinee  into  en- 
thusiasm. Compared  with  her,  the  second  girl, 


168  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Phyllis  Lane,  was  no  more  than  an  attractive 
amateur.  But  both  were  kind  to  their  humbler 
sisters.  Indeed,  nearly  everybody  was  kind  to 
everybody  in  those  days.  The  theatrical  pro- 
fession is  conspicuous  for  its  big  generosities  and 
petty  jealousies.  In  August,  nineteen-sixteen, 
the  former  had  almost  entirely  obliterated  the 
latter.  A  huge  daily  casualty-list  is  a  very 
levelling — indeed,  binding — influence,  especially 
in  such  a  community  ;  there  was  not  a  girl  in  the 
chorus  at  the  Imperial  who  had  not  an  interest, 
actual  or  prospective,  in  that  casualty-list. 

The  male  members  of  the  company,  as  was 
only  natural  at  the  time,  were  remarkable  neither 
for  their  youth  nor  their  physical  fitness.  In 
addition  to  the  phlebitic  Ames,  there  were — Jack 
Hopeleigh,  a  well-preserved  hero  with  a  light 
baritone  —  he  was  registered  under  the  Derby 
Scheme  in  group  forty-three  ;  Hubert  Harts- 
horn, a  comic  manservant,  who  owed  his  irresist- 
ible wheezy  laugh  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
badly  gassed  at  Ypres  more  than  twelve  months 
previously,  and  was  now  discharged  permanently 
unfit ;  and  one  Valentine  Rigg,  a  stage  lawyer, 
who  for  forty  years  had  earned  a  modest  but 
steady  income  by  arriving  in  the  Third  Act  with 
a  black  bag,  and  clearing  up  all  misunderstand- 
ings just  before  the  clock  struck  eleven. 


CHORUS  169 

To  the  student  of  humanity  the  chorus  gentle- 
men were  really  more  interesting  than  the  prin- 
cipals. There  was  a  dismal  individual  named 
Chivers,  who  now  kept  a  stationer's  shop  in 
Brixton,  but  had  once  been  in  grand  opera — 
Carl  Rosa's  chorus.  He  contributed  a  reedy 
tenor  to  the  ensemble.  There  was  a  plump  little 
man  with  a  round  face  and  little  tufts  of  white 
whisker,  invaluable  in  scenes  of  revelry  where 
guests  of  the  "jolly  old  uncle"  type  were  re- 
quired. This  was  his  first  theatrical  engagement 
for  fifteen  years.  In  the  interim  he  had  supported 
life  with  invincible  cheerfulness,  as  a  bookmaker's 
clerk,  a  traveller  in  hymn-books,  and  head-waiter 
in  an  old-fashioned  Brighton  hotel.  There  was 
a  discharged  corporal  of  the  Machine  Gun  Corps, 
with  lungs  of  brass,  the  D.C.M.  ribbon  on  his 
waistcoat,  and  twenty-seven  fragments  of  Ger- 
man H.E.  in  his  left  leg.  There  was  an  unpleas- 
ant-looking youth  named  Mervyn,  with  bobbed 
hair  and  a  patronising  manner  —  debarred  from 
volunteering  his  services  to  his  country  by  reason 
of  a  susceptibility  to  chills  upon  the  liver. 
Popular  rumour  located  these  elsewhere. 

And  there  was  Alf  Spender  —  "Uncle  Ga- 
Ga."  His  age  was  a  mystery.  His  own  estimate, 
for  war  purposes,  was  forty-one.  The  ladies  of 


170  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

the  chorus  put  it  among  themselves  at  a  hundred 
and  fifty.  It  was  possibly  fifty-four,  or  there- 
abouts. He  was  a  frail  creature,  with  a  simple 
soul,  and  what  Americans  call  a  "  single-track  " 
mind.  He  had  been  a  super  or  chorus  man  ever 
since  he  could  remember  ;  and  until  the  year 
nineteen  fourteen  had  never  relinquished  a 
humble  ambition  to  achieve  a  speaking  part.  But 
now  all  that  was  cast  to  the  winds.  His  single 
track  was  carrying  other  traffic.  Somewhere 
within  his  ill-nourished  frame  burned  the  pure 
white  flame  of  genuine  patriotism.  His  one 
desire  was  to  be  admitted  to  the  privilege  of  khaki, 
and  to  do  his  humble  part  in  "teaching  those 
dirty  Germans  a  lesson."  He  never  rested  in  his 
efforts  to  qualif y.  He  dyed  his  scanty  locks  ;  he 
endeavoured,  by  daily  study  of  a  manual  of 
Swedish  exercises,  to  school  his  feeble  limbs  and 
sickly  body  to  the  requisite  pitch  of  efficiency. 
He  offered  himself  at  every  recruiting  station  in 
London,  giving  a  different  name  at  each.  But 
all  in  vain  ;  no  one  would  accept  him.  He  could 
pass  no  physical  test ;  a  big  heart  was  not  enough. 
"  Still,  I  haven't  given  up  hope,"  he  confided 
to  Marjorie.  "I  have  just  discovered  a  really 
admirable  hair-tonic  ;  and  there's  a  new  strength- 
ening-food come  on  the  market,  which  may  help. 


CHORUS  171 

Of  course,  the  chief  difficulty  is  my  teeth  ;  an 
M.O.  turns  me  down  the  moment  he  examines 
them !  I  haven't  many,  you  see,  and  what  I  have 
don't  fit  together  very  well ;  and  good  dentistry 
runs  into  money — a  fiver,  at  least.  But  I  don't 
despair — not  by  any  means.  They  will  want  me 
in  time  !  It  seems  inhuman  to  say  so,  but  I  do 
trust  this  battle  that's  just  started  on  the  Somme 
won't  finish  the  war  right  off.  I  couldn't  bear 
to  see  the  troops  coming  back  victorious,  and  feel 
that  I  did  nothing  to  help  !" 

Here  was  another  Willing  Horse.  Marjorie's 
heart  warmed  to  him ;  they  became  friends. 
They  shared  a  newspaper  at  rehearsals,  discussing 
Sir  Douglas  Haig's  daily  bulletin  word  by  word. 
They  read  between  the  lines,  and  decided  that, 
despite  newspaper  heroics  to  the  contrary,  the 
gigantic  offensive  of  July  the  First  had  only  been 
partially  successful. 

"  We  never  got  through  on  the  left  at  all,"  said 
Alf .  "  Look  at  that  place  on  the  map  —  Thiepval. 
We  were  meant  to  carry  that  bang  off,  and  we 
didn't !  They  don't  say  so,  but  we  didn't !  We 
have  broken  their  line  all  right,  but  the  trouble 
is  that  we  have  broken  it  on  too  narrow  a  front  — 
and  I  think  it's  all  because  of  that  Thiepval  place. 
We  must  widen  the  gap,  or  the  attack  fails.  Shall 


172  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

I  tell  you  what  I  would  do  if  I  were  head  of  the 
Army  Council  ? " 

"Yes  —  do,"  said  Marjorie,  eagerly. 

"I  would  secretly  construct  some  sort  of 
contrivance  that  would  protect  our  troops  as 
they  dashed  across  No  Man's  Land.  That's  the 
most  dangerous  moment.  I'm  not  worrying 
about  artillery  fire,  mind  you  !  You  may  dodge 
that,  or  you  may  not ;  anyhow,  there's  a  sporting 
chance  about  it.  It's  those  machine  guns  !  The 
Germans  have  them  fixed  in  such  a  way  that  when 
they  are  all  fired  at  once  there  is  not  a  yard  of 
ground  that  isn't  a  running  river  of  bullets.  Now 
mark  you,  once  we  get  across  that  bullet  zone,  we 
have  the  Hun  at  our  mercy.  We  British"  — 
Alf 's  emaciated  frame  stiffened  exultantly — "  can 
do  anything  with  the  bayonet !  But  we  must  get 
across  first ! " 

"  But  how  ? "  Marjorie  sighed  despairingly. 

"  I  don't  know  :  I  haven't  enough  technical 
knowledge.  But  some  sort  of  armour-plated 
motor  'bus  would  be  the  idea.  I'll  bet  old 
Kitchener  would  have  fixed  it,  if  he'd  been  alive. 
Oh,  dear!"  (The  Hampshire  had  gone  down 
some  six  weeks  previously. )  "  By  the  way,  have 
you  heard  from  Mr.  Birnie  of  late  ? " 

Then  Marjorie  would  tell  him  all  Roy's  news. 


CHORUS  173 

Naturally  it  contained  little  of  military  value, 
but  our  two  enthusiasts  read  it — or  rather, 
approved  portions  thereof  —  with  all  the  solemn 
deference  due  to  the  Authority  on  the  Spot. 

"  He  may  get  home  on  leave  some  time  soon," 
Marjorie  said.  "  He  went  out  last  August,  and 
it's  July  now.  Leave  is  long  over-due,  but  they 
stopped  it  all  for  weeks  before  the  battle.  His 
battalion  was  in  the  opening  attack,  I  think,  but 
they  are  out  now,  refitting." 

"  It  must  have  been  an  anxious  time  for  you 
while  they  were  in,"  said  Alf .  "  Did  you  know  ?  " 

"Yes  —  at  least,  I  knew  a  few  weeks  before 
that  they  were  at  Bray-sur-Somme  ;  so  when 
the  news  of  the  attack  came  I  felt  pretty 
certain." 

Alf 's  mild  blue  eyes  flashed. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  with  him,"  he  said, 
"instead  of" — he  glanced  disparagingly  down- 
stage, to  where  Phil  Kay,  entrenched  in  the  or- 
chestra, was  resisting  Tubby  Ames's  bi-weekly 
offensive  —  "  this !  It  must  be  a  grand  moment, 
coming  back  to  rest,  right  out  of  a  battle  —  all 
mud-splashed,  and  exhausted,  knowing  you  have 
made  good  !  Did  he  give  you  any  details  when 
he  wrote  ? " 

"  The  only  detail  that  mattered,"  said  Marjorie 
with  an  unsteady  little  laugh,  "  was  this  ! " 


174  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

She  produced  a  field  post  card — muddy, 
crumpled,  evidently  dispatched  by  the  grimy 
hand  of  a  stretcher-bearer  or  a  ration  orderly. 
On  the  back  were  printed  certain  alternative 
statements,  familiar  enough  by  this  time,  designed 
by  the  authorities  to  cover  all  the  chances  incident 
to  the  life  of  a  soldier  in  the  field.  They  were  all 
deleted  with  a  blunt  pencil,  save  the  first : 

/  am  well. 

"  That  was  the  nicest  letter  I  ever  had  from 
him  ! "  said  Marjorie. 

"  And  I  bet  that's  saying  a  good  deal ! "  replied 
Alf ,  with  a  stately  little  bow.  "  Now,  touching 
this  Delville  Wood,  on  the  right— " 

But  here  the  battle-call  of  Mr.  Lancaster  was 
heard  in  the  stalls  ;  and  our  strategists  turned 
reluctantly  from  the  prosecution  of  the  military 
campaign  to  the  maintenance  of  civilian  morale. 


THE  Second  Edition  was  produced  in  due  course, 
with  the  success  inevitable  in  that  enthusiastic, 
unsophisticated,  carpe  diem  period.  Marjorie 
appeared  successively,  and  with  distinction,  as  a 
Lady  Guest  at  the  reception  of  a  most  uncon- 
vincing Duchess,  where  she  flourished  an  empty 
champagne  glass  painted  yellow  inside  ;  as  a 


CHORUS  175 

Bird  of  Paradise  in  the  chorus  of  an  ornithological 
ditty  entitled,  "  If  my  Girl  was  a  Bird,  I  would 
Build  Her  a  Nest,"  contributed  by  the  well- 
preserved  light  baritone  aforementioned  ;  as  a 
damsel  of  the  South  Sea  Islands,  participating, 
with  somewhat  improbable  ritual,  in  the  Annual 
Festival  of  the  Sun  ;  and  in  other  less  exacting 
roles.  Her  most  distinguished  appearance  was  in 
the  Finale  (in  a  tableau  of  the  Allied  Nations), 
as  The  Spirit  of  France.  In  this  she  was  entrusted 
with  a  separate  entrance,  a  solitary  walk  down 
stage,  and  the  deliverance  of  a  rhymed  couplet 
of  a  patriotic  nature,  in  which  General  Joffre  suf- 
fered the  indignity  of  rhyming  with  "  Our  hats 
we  doff,"  "nasty  cough."  She  was  quite  com- 
posed, and  offered  her  outrageous  contribution 
with  such  aplomb  as  to  arouse  frantic  applause. 
Liss  was  a  dancer,  and  her  activities  were 
mostly  linked  with  those  of  seven  other  little 
creatures  like  herself.  She  was  whole-heartedly 
delighted  with  her  friend's  successful  graduation. 

Next  morning  the  company  were  called  at 
eleven,  to  be  photographed.  The  morning  after, 
Marjorie  reported  for  duty  at  the  canteen,  and 
was  received  with  open  arms  by  the  Mouldy  Old 
Copper.  With  renewed  enthusiasm  she  settled 


176  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

down  to  the  old  drudgery.  She  was  supporting 
herself  ;  her  long  and  dreary  evenings  Were 
over  ;  and,  best  of  all,  she  was  really  Doing 
Something  to  Help. 

VI 

ONE  morning  a  few  weeks  later  Mrs.  Clegg  was 
deposited  by  the  Rolls-Royce  at  the  front  door 
of  Buckholm,  and  was  ushered  by  Mr.  Bates  into 
the  amber  drawing-room.  She  entered  with  the 
uneasy  self -consciousness  of  the  visitor  to  a  great 
house  who  has  come,  not  to  pay  an  intimate  call, 
but  to  attend  a  committee  meeting. 

"  The  other  ladies  have  not  yet  arrived,  madam," 
announced  Bates  ;  and  added,  in  stately  reproof  : 
"It  is  not  quite  eleven  o'clock.  Her  ladyship 
will  be  down  presently.  Will  you  please  to  be 
seated  ? "  He  deposited  the  flustered  and  un- 
timely caller  upon  a  sofa,  handed  her  a  magazine, 
and  left  her  alone. 

Mrs.  Clegg  mechanically  turned  over  the  pages 
of  the  magazine.  It  was  one  of  those  periodicals 
which  was  doing  its  characteristic  best  at  that 
time  to  compensate  our  warriors  in  the  field  for 
compulsory  severance  from  domestic  felicity  by  a 
weekly  display,  on  a  generous  —  nay,  prodigal  — 
scale,  of  the  forms  and  features  of  loved  ones  far 


CHORUS  177 

away  —  particularly  of  such  as  happened  to  be 
connected  with  the  lighter  walks  of  the  lyric 
drama.  Mrs.  Clegg's  eye  was  caught  by  a  photo- 
graph on  the  middle  page  —  of  a  tall,  slender 
girl,  draped  from  head  to  foot  in  what  looked  like 
a  flag,  with  the  Cap  of  Liberty  perched  upon  her 
fair  head.  The  face  seemed  familiar.  Mrs.  Clegg 
adjusted  her  tortoise-shell  lorgnette  —  at  home, 
when  reading,  she  wore  simple  spectacles  —  and 
examined  the  photograph  in  greater  detail.  Then 
she  perused  the  journalistic  effusion  underneath. 
It  began  : 

One  cannot  have  Too  Many  Girls  of  This  Kind,  Can 
one  ?  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Clegg  was  a  dutiful  wife.  On  her  way 
home  she  stopped  at  the  railway  station  and 
bought  a  copy  of  the  magazine  at  the  book-stall. 
After  dinner  she  showed  the  middle  page  to  her 
husband.  It  was  a  courageous  act,  for  no  such 
literature  had  ever  been  introduced  into  Netherby 
before. 

That  night,  when  the  household  had  retired  to 
bed,  Albert  Clegg  reopened  the  Family  Bible, 
lying  since  prayers  at  the  head  of  the  dining-room 
table  ;  turned  to  the  Births,  Marriages,  and 
Deaths  and  sent  his  fountain-pen  scouting  down 


178  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

the  first  column.  Presently  he  came  to  the  name 
he  wanted.  He  scored  it  out  —  scored  it,  and 
scored  it,  to  complete  obliteration.  When  he 
had  finished,  Marjorie  had  joined  Aunt  Eliza  in 
the  ranks  of  the  Legion  of  the  Lost. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS 

WE  were  due  back  in  the  line  that  night,  and  I 
was  struggling,  in  company  with  one  humid 
orderly-room  sergeant  and  several  hundred  house- 
flies,  to  clean  up  the  usual  orderly-room  mess  — 
indents,  returns,  and  other  nuisances  which,  in 
the  absence  of  the  adjutant,  usually  fall  upon 
the  patient  shoulders  of  that  regimental  tweeny, 
the  second-in-command. 

I  was  seated  at  the  kitchen  table  of  a  farm-house 
in  Picardy.  The  weather  had  been  wet  and  misty 
for  weeks  —  the  weather  at  critical  moments  in 
this  war  was  invariably  pro-Boche  —  but  this 
afternoon  the  sun  had  reappeared  and  summer 
had  come  back  with  a  rush.  Still,  on  the  over- 
worked highway  outside  mud  still  lay  deep.  At 
the  farm-gate  two  transport  men  were  admonish- 
ing two  mules,  in  the  only  way  they  knew,  for 
indicating  reluctance  (in  the  only  way  they  knew) 
to  hauling  the  headquarters  company's  field- 
kitchen  out  of  the  oozy  ruts  where  it  had  reposed 
for  ten  days.  Through  the  open  door,  looking 
east,  I  could  descry  the  wrecked  spire  of  Albert 


180  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Church,  with  its  golden  Virgin  and  Child  project- 
ing horizontally  from  the  summit,  like  the  flame 
of  a  candle  in  a  steady  draught. 

To  my  ears  all  the  time,  through  the  heavy 
summer  air,  came  the  incessant  muffled  thunder 
of  guns,  and  guns,  and  more  guns  —  British  guns, 
new  British  guns ;  hundreds  of  them  —  informing 
Brother  Boche  that  he,  the  originator  of  massed 
artillery  tactics,  was  "  f  or  it "  himself  at  last.  The 
bombardment  had  begun  systematically  about 
the  middle  of  the  month,  all  up  and  down  the 
Western  Front.  Last  Saturday  it  had  intensified 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Somme  and  Ancre 
Valleys  ;  I  had  lain  awake  in  my  billet,  listening, 
and  recalling  that  summer  afternoon,  less  than 
two  years  ago,  when  Lord  Eskerley  had  gloomily 
explained  to  me  that  it  took  at  least  three  years 
to  make  a  British  gunner.  This  afternoon  the 
whole  earth  trembled  ;  the  final  eruption  could 
not  be  much  longer  delayed. 

For  Britain  was  ready  to  strike  at  last.  True, 
she  had  struck  before,  both  recently  and  fre- 
quently ;  but  that  had  been  mainly  in  self-defence, 
or  for  experiment,  or  to  create  a  diversion.  Now 
she  was  in  a  position  to  strike  home.  For  nearly 
two  years  the  Willing  Horse  had  stood  up  in- 
domitably under  the  strain,  while  a  nation,  mainly 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS       181 

willing,  but  shamefully  unready,  was  getting  into 
condition.  To-day  that  nation  was  ready  ;  every 
man  worth  his  salt  was  at  last  a  trained  soldier. 
Never  before  in  our  history  had  such  an  army 
been  gathered,  and  never  again  would  such  an 
army  be  seen,  as  strained  at  the  leash  behind  that 
twenty-five  mile  front  on  the  thirtieth  of  June, 
nineteen  sixteen.  True,  we  launched  greater 
armies,  and  won  greater  victories  in  the  two  years 
that  followed  ;  but — the  very  flower  of  a  race 
can  bloom  but  once  in  a  generation.  The  flower 
of  our  generation  bloomed  and  perished  during 
the  four  months  of  the  First  Battle  of  the  Somme. 
We  shall  not  look  upon  their  like  again.  It  is  to 
be  doubted  if  any  generation  will  —  or  any  race. 
Sometimes,  in  these  later  days  of  reaction  and 
uncertainty,  we  are  inclined  to  wonder  whether 
that  sacrifice  was  justified  ;  whether  it  would  not 
have  been  better  to  wait  just  a  little  longer.  But 
in  truth  we  had  waited  long  enough.  Strategy 
might  advocate  delay,  but  honour  could  not. 
For  four  months  Verdun  had  stood  up  like  a  rock 
against  the  rolling  tide  of  assault ;  it  was  time 
we  took  some  weight  off  Verdun's  shoulders.  For 
two  years  the  half -equipped  armies  of  Russia  had 
maintained  a  suicidal  offensive  on  our  account ; 
even  now  fresh  German  divisions  were  streaming 


182  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

away  from  the  Western  Front  to  the  Eastern. 
It  was  time  we  called  them  back.  Strategy  or 
no  strategy,  we  meant  to  accomplish  those  two 
purposes.  And  we  did — with  something  over. 
Perhaps  the  Flowers  who  sleep  by  the  Somme 
to-day  feel,  on  that  account,  that  what  they 
perished  for  was  worth  while.  They  kept  the 
faith. 

I  had  just  dictated  provisional  Battalion  Orders 
for  the  morrow  ;  made  the  usual  mistakes  in  the 
weekly  Strength  Return ;  and  was  wrestling  with 
an  incomprehensible  document — highly  prized 
by  that  section  of  the  Round  Games  Department 
which  sees  to  it  that  wherever  the  British  soldier 
goes,  whether  singly  or  in  battalions,  his  daily 
rations  and  weekly  pay  are  diverted  from  their 
normal  course  to  meet  him — when  there  came  a 
scuttering  of  hooves,  and  Master  Roy  Birnie,  our 
esteemed  sniping  and  intelligence  officer,  came 
flying  round  the  corner  on  a  borrowed  horse 
(mine),  as  if  all  the  Germans  in  Picardy  were 
after  him.  However,  this  was  merely  Roy's 
exuberant  way  of  coming  home  for  his  tea.  He 
descended,  hitched  his  steed  to  the  farm-pump, 
and  came  striding  into  the  kitchen  with  blood  in 
his  young  eye.  I  dismissed  the  sergeant  in  quest 
of  tea.  Roy  favoured  me  with  a  formal  salute, 
then  sat  down,  and  began: 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS       183 

"Uncle  Alan,  I  wonder  why  every  battalion 
in  the  British  Army  (except  ours)  is  entirely 
composed  of  damn  fools  ! " 

"  I  have  heard  that  speculation  so  often  upon 
the  lips  of  members  of  other  units  of  the  British 
Army,"  I  replied,  "that  I  have  given  up  trying 
to  find  the  answer.  Tell  me  your  trouble." 

Roy  accepted  the  invitation  at  once. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  had  a  peach  of  an  observa- 
tion post  up  in  the  front  line.  It  was  an  old 
derelict  mill-wheel  affair  —  one  of  those  contrap- 
tions you  see  on  the  end  wall  of  every  farm-house 
in  this  country,  with  a  poor  brute  of  a  mongrel 
dog  inside,  treadmilling  away  to  work  a  churn,  or 
play  the  pianola,  or  something.  It  lies  out  flat 
in  front  of  C  Company's  sector,  on  top  of  a 
little  rise,  looking  like  nothing  at  all.  You  know 
it?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  It  has  been  there  for  months  ; 
it  is  one  of  the  accepted  features  of  the  landscape 
by  this  time." 

"  That's  right ;  the  Boche  has  never  suspected 
if.  Well,  I  have  been  using  it  as  an  O.  Pip  for 
six  weeks.  There  is  a  private  covered  sap  leading 
out  to  it,  and  once  you're  inside  you  can  stand 
in  a  pit,  with  your  little  circular  peep-show  all 
round  you.  Why,  through  one  loophole  I  can 


184  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

see  right  away  to  Beaumont  Hamel !  Now,  as 
you  know,  ten  days  ago  we  handed  over  to  the 
Late  and  Dirties.  This  morning,  when  I  went  up 
into  the  line  to  see  about  taking  over  again  to- 
morrow, what  do  you  think  I  found  —  in  my  own 
special  private  O.P.?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  said.    "A  hairpin  ? " 

"Uncle  Alan,  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  play 
the  fool !  I'll  tell  you  what  I  found  ;  the  whole 
floor  of  the  post — my  post,  mind  you — was  cov- 
ered with  empty  cartridge  cases  !  Some  Late- 
and-Dirty  perisher  had  been  in  there  with  a  rifle, 
firing  volleys  —  no,  salvoes — out  of  it !  With  an 
oily  barrel,  too,  I'll  bet !  Of  course  the  Boche  has 
the  place  registered  now  ;  and  next  time  there  is 
any  general  unpleasantness  brewing,  up  it  will 
go !  And  I  hope  the  Late-and-Dirty  dog  who 
gave  it  away  will  be  inside,  that's  all ! " 

"It's  rotten  luck,  I  admit,  boy.  But  in  this 
case  it  doesn't  particularly  matter.  In  a  day  or 
two,  we  hope,  your  observation  post  will  be  far  in 
rear  of  us.  Perhaps  some  clerkly  gentleman 
from  the  base  will  be  making  his  nest  therein." 

Roy's  face  brightened  suddenly. 

"  When  do  we  push  off  ? "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"That  is  a  secret  known  only  to  the  powers 
above.  But  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  were 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS       185 

to-morrow,  or  the  next  day.  The  Colonel  is  away 
at  a  Brigade  Conference  now — the  last,  I  dare 
say.  He  will  probably  call  an  officers'  meeting 
when  he  comes  back." 

"  Is  Kilbride  with  him  ? "  asked  Roy  quickly. 

"Yes.    Why?" 

Roy  smiled  awkwardly. 

"  Well,  you  know  ! "  he  said.  "Addressing 
you  as  Uncle  Alan,  and  not  as  second-in-com- 
mand, it's  a  little  difficult  sometimes  for  us  Hoy 
Policy  to  gather  from  the  C.O.'s  account  of  the 
proceedings  what  really  is  settled  at  these  Brigade 
pow-wows.  That  is  why  we  find  it  so  useful  to 
pump  old  Kilbride  afterwards.  The  Colonel  is 
such  a  fire-eater  that  he  loathes  all  this  chess-board 
warfare,  as  he  calls  it.  His  idea  of  fighting  is  to 
go  over  the  parapet  about  a  hundred  yards  ahead 
of  his  men,  rush  straight  at  the  nearest  German, 
and  bite  him  to  death.  A  pretty  sound  plan  too, 
in  many  ways.  The  men  would  follow  him  any- 
where." 

"You  are  right,  Roy — they  would.  And  ad- 
dressing you,  not  in  your  official  capacity,  but 
as  my  nephew,  that's  just  what  makes  me 
anxious." 

"You  mean  you  are  not  sure  where  he 
lead  them?" 


186  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  I  am  not  sure  where  he  wont  lead  them ! 
However,  we  must  not  criticise  our  superiors. 
Go  and  have  your  tea,  you  disrespectful  young 
hound,  and  then  come  and  help  your  uncle  to 
wrestle  with  B.213.  Hallo,  here  is  the  Colonel ! " 

There  came  a  fresh  sound  of  hooves  ;  a  neigh 
of  welcome  from  the  bored  animal  already  teth- 
ered to  the  pump  ;  and  Eric  Bethune  and  his 
adjutant  rode  into  the  yard. 

Eric  had  been  sent  to  us  after  Loos  —  our  first 
commander,  Douglas  Ogilvy,  having  been  killed 
in  a  bomb-fight  near  Hulluch.  ( I  remember  the 
day  well.  The  Germans  were  furnished  with 
bombs  which  exploded  on  impact ;  ours  were  of 
the  Brock's  Benefit  type,  and  had  to  be  lit  with 
a  match.  Unfortunately,  it  was  raining  at  the 
time.) 

I  need  not  say  how  joyfully  the  coming  of 
Ogilvy's  successor  was  greeted  by  the  second-in- 
command.  Eric  came  to  us  with  a  reputation. 
For  nearly  twelve  months  he  had  ruled  an  over- 
crowded and  under-staffed  depot  at  home,  con- 
taining never  less  than  two  thousand  turbulent 
ex-militiamen,  and  had  licked  into  shape  and  self- 
respecting  shape  some  of  the  toughest  material 
that  our  country  produces.  After  that,  he  had 
achieved  his  heart's  desire  and  been  sent  out,  to  be 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS       187 

second-in-command  of  our  First  Battalion.  His 
first  proceeding  on  arrival  was  to  organise  a  suc- 
cessful attack  upon  a  valuable  sector  of  the  line 
lost  by  another  unit  ten  days  previously.  He 
led  the  attack  in  person,  and  was  mentioned  in 
Dispatches. 

He  came  to  us,  inevitably,  with  a  halo — or 
should  it  be  nimbus  ?  —  and  set  to  work  to  make 
us  the  smartest  battalion  on  the  Western  Front. 
Physical  fear  appeared  to  be  quite  unknown  to 
him.  For  my  part,  I  confess  quite  frankly  that 
I  do  not  enjoy  an  intensive  bombardment  in  the 
least.  I  really  believe  Eric  did.  So,  I  think, 
in  soberer  fashion,  did  his  predecessor.  But  we 
were  soon  conscious  of  the  change  of  regime  in 
other  directions.  Where  Eric  differed  from 
Douglas  Ogilvy  was  in  his  passion  for  the  spec- 
tacular side  of  soldiering — the  pomp  of  cere- 
monial, the  clockwork  discipline,  the  perfectly 
wheeling  line,  the  immaculate  button  in  the  midst 
of  mud  and  blood.  Eric  was  at  last  in  a  position 
to  model  a  battalion  on  his  own  beliefs.  The 
result  had  been  an  ecstasy  of  worship  at  the  shrine 
of  Spit  and  Polish. 

"A  dirty  soldier,"  he  was  fond  of  telling  his 
followers,  "  means  a  dirty  rifle  ;  and  a  dirty  rifle 
means,  in  the  long  run,  a  dead  soldier.  Go  and 
shave,  and  save  your  life  ! " 


188  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

And  there  was  no  doubt  that,  within  limits, 
he  was  right.  That  mysterious  and  impalpable 
entity,  which  we  call  morale,  is  apt  to  languish 
without  the  aid  of  soap  and  water,  and  a  certain 
percentage  of  officially  fostered  bravura.  The 
chief  difficulty  about  this  war  was  to  prevent  it 
from  degenerating  into  a  troglodytic  game  of 
stalemate.  Everything  that  maintained  morale 
and  stimulated  pride  of  Regiment  was  welcome. 

But  there  are  other  things  ;  and  if  these  be 
lacking,  look  out  for  danger — especially  under 
modern  conditions.  And  it  was  this  fear  which 
possessed  my  slow-moving,  uninspired  mind  as  I 
took  tea  in  that  Picardy  farm-house  that  hot  and 
fateful  afternoon  with  my  superior  officer  and 
lifelong  friend. 

"  Well,"  Eric  began,  filling  his  pipe,  "  we  have 
had  our  last  pow-wow,  thank  God !  The  Brigadier 
was  in  his  element.  He  had  the  whole  affair 
worked  out  in  a  little  time-table  —  like  a  Jubilee 
Procession.  Salute  of  twenty-one  guns  at  dawn 
— procession  to  move  off  in  an  orderly  manner  at 
six  a.m. — buffet  luncheon  at  noon  —  carriages  at 
five-forty-five,  and  everything  ! " 

"Did  old  Kilbride  take  down  a  copy  of  the 
time-table  ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.    Probably  he  did  :    it's  the  sort 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS       189 

of  thing  he  would  do.  As  for  me,  the  whole  busi- 
ness nearly  made  me  weep.  Why  are  we  treated 
like  children,  or  amateurs  in  charge  of  a  Terri- 
torial Field  Day  ?  Don't  these  chuckle-headed 
Mandarins  realise  that  we  are  fighting  under  con- 
ditions of  actual  warfare,  when  at  any  moment 
things  may  happen  which  no  time-table  can 
cover  ?  Don't  they  understand  that  you  cannot 
control  the  course  of  a  battle  by  drawing  up  a 
niggling  time-table  any  more  than  you  can  con- 
trol the  weather  by  buying  a  barometer  ?  There 
are  only  two  things  that  count  in  a  soldier.  The 
first  is  initiative  in  attack  ;  the  second  is  a  com- 
plete understanding  with  his  officers.  Thank  God, 
my  men  have  both.  Show  them  the  objective  ; 
send  them  over  the  parapet ;  and  they  will  see 
to  the  rest  of  the  business  without  any  time-table 
or  book  of  the  words  whatever,  thank  you  very 
much  !  Discipline  !  Discipline  !  Discipline  ! 
That's  the  only  thing  that  matters  I " 

"Did  you  communicate  your  views  to  the 
meeting  ? "  I  asked. 

"I  took  that  liberty.  In  fact,  I  have  been 
taking  it  for  the  last  three  weeks.  I  fancy  I  am 
getting  slightly  unpopular  among  the  higher 
forms  of  animal  life  ;  but  some  one  has  to  take 
the  lead  in  these  matters.  Most  of  the  men  are 


190  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

too  newly  promoted — too  recently  gazetted,  for 
that  matter — to  intrude  their  opinions.  Good 
fellows,  but  amateurs  —  and  diffident  amateurs  at 
that  I  Of  course  they  regard  everything  the 
Brigadier  says  as  gospel  —  and  he  did  worry  them 
so  1  He  explained  over  and  over  again  to  each 
Battalion  Commander  the  exact  route  by  which 
he  was  to  lead  his  men  to  their  objective,  and  what 
he  was  to  do  when  he  got  there.  He  was  to  dig 
in,  and  consolidate,  and  mop  up,  and  re-establish 
communication — with  Brigade  Headquarters 
first  and  foremost,  of  course! — make  arrange- 
ments for  a  ration  dump  —  fancy  thinking  of 
food  at  such  a  moment —  ! " 

' '  An  army  fights  on  its  stomach.'  N.  Bona- 
parte," I  observed. 

"Trust  you  to  remember  yours,  old  man.J 
Then  he  told  us  a  lot  more  things,  mainly  about 
keeping  touch  with  the  Gunners,  the  Machine- 
Gunners,  and  the  Signallers,  and  the  R.E.,  and 
the  Ammunition  Column,  and  the  Dry  Canteen, 
and  the  Old  Folks  at  Home  —  everybody,  in  fact, 
except  the  enemy.  After  that,  a  Gunner  Brass- 
Hat  stood  up,  and  spoke  his  little  piece.  He 
rubbed  in  the  time-table  business  ;  said  we  must 
adhere  to  its  provisions  very  carefully  ;  otherwise 
his  guns  would  invariably  be  pooped  off  into  the 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS       191 

stern  of  the  Brigade  instead  of  the  bows  of  the 
Boche.  He  didn't  put  it  quite  so  baldly  as  that, 
but  he  waffled  about  the  urgent  necessity  of  ob- 
serving the  greatest  exactitude,  especially  when 
the  Gunners  proceeded  from  bombardment  to 
barrage.  Then  the  Brigadier  pronounced  a  sort 
of  benediction,  and  asked,  as  a  kind  of  after- 
thought, if  there  were  any  further  points  he  could 
elucidate  for  us." 

"  That,  no  doubt,  was  where  you  put  your  little 
oar  in  I " 

"It  was.  I  asked  him  straight  —  and  I  could 
see  half  the  fellows  in  the  room  agreed  with  me  — 
if  he  had  considered  the  effect  of  such  paralysing 
exactitude  upon  morale  ?  Our  tradition — at  least 
the  tradition  of  my  Regiment  —  was,  and  always 
had  been,  to  seek  out  the  enemy  and  destroy  him. 
My  men  had  not  had  a  Staff  College  education  ; 
they  did  not  understand  or  cotton  on  to  this 
business  of  limited  objectives,  and  working  to  a 
time-table.  Their  objective  was  Berlin,  and  their 
time-table  was  the  limit  of  physical  endurance  ; 
in  other  words,  they  were  sufficiently  disciplined 
to  go  until  they  dropped.  Wasn't  it  rather  a  pity 
to  cramp  their  style,  and  so  on  ?  I  am  afraid  I 
rather  riled  the  Brigadier  ;  for  the  moment  I 
forgot  he  had  been  through  the  Staff  College 
himself." 


192  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  What  did  he  say  ? " 

"  He  mumbled  something  to  the  effect  that  my 
suggestions,  if  adopted,  would  involve  a  radical 
rearrangement  of  the  plan  of  operations  of  an 
entire  Army  Corps  ;  and  that  if  my  men  didn't 
understand  the  tactical  requirements  of  a  modern 
battle  it  was  my  job  to  explain  them  to  them.  He 
said  that — to  me !  Offensive  old  bounder  !  But 
of  course,  discipline  is  discipline,  so  I  said  no 
more.  One  cannot  humiliate  these  old  boys  in  the 
presence  of  long-eared  subalterns  ;  I  remembered 
that." 

"  It's  a  pity  you  didn't  remember  it  a  bit  sooner, 
old  man  ! "  It  was  a  rash  observation,  but  I  was 
thoroughly  alarmed. 

Eric  flushed  a  dusky  red. 

"Look  here,  Alan,"  he  said,  "I  can't  take 
criticism  from  any  officer  of  mine,  however  old — " 

"Sorry!"  I  replied.  "But  do  be  careful, 
Eric  I  You  know  what  these  people  are.  For 
God's  sake,  don't  get  sent  home  ! " 

Eric  wheeled  round  upon  me. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  snapped.  "  What 
gossip  have  you  been  listening  to  ? " 

I  began  to  feel  my  own  temper  rising. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  listening  to  gossip," 
I  said  stiffly  —  "especially  about  my  Command- 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS       193 

ing  Officer.  But  the  Brigade  Major  dropped  me 
a  pretty  broad  hint  the  other  day,  to  the  effect 
that  your  independent  attitude  was  causing  alarm 
and  despondency  among  the  Brass  Hats  ;  and  — 
well,  I  think  it's  only  fair  to  mention  the  fact  to 

you." 

But  Eric  was  in  no  mood  for  sage  counsel  that 
day.  He  smelt  battle  ;  he  was  "up  in  the 
cloods." 

"  Pack  of  old  women  ! "  he  exclaimed  im- 
patiently. "  Wait  till  they  see  what  we  do  in  the 
show  to-morrow,  compared  with  the  notebook 
wallahs!" 

Then  he  glanced  at  my  troubled  face,  and  the 
old  boyish  smile  came  back  —  the  smile  which  had 
held  me  captive  for  thirty  years  or  more.  He 
leaned  over,  and  clapped  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Cheer  up,  Alan  ! "  he  said.  "  It  was  good  of 
you  to  warn  me  ;  but  I  must  use  my  own  judg- 
ment in  this  matter — and  I  take  full  responsi- 
bility for  doing  so."  He  rose,  and  knocked  out 
his  pipe.  "Now,  I  suppose  I  must  have  an 
officers'  meeting,  and  let  old  Kilbride  read  to  them 
the  Brigadier's  impression  of  how  this  picnic  is  to 
be  conducted.  They  are  a  very  earnest  band. 
They  will  take  it  all  down — they'd  take  down 
the  multiplication  table  if  you  recited  it  to  them 


194  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

—  and  read  it  to  their  N.C.O.'s  ;  and  the  N.C.O.'s 
will  misquote  it  to  the  men  ;  and  to-morrow  I 
shall  see  my  battalion,  guide-book  in  hand, 
methodically  advancing  to  victory,  chanting 
elegant  extracts  from  Orders,  to  encourage  them- 
selves and  frighten  the  Germans  !  It's  a  mad 
war,  this  !  Now,  where  is  the  orderly  sergeant  ? " 

"Sit  down  a  minute,"  I  said,  "and  listen  to 
me."  I  was  imperilling  the  foundations  of  an 
ancient  friendship,  but  I  could  not  leave  matters 
like  this.  Eric  dropped  impatiently  into  his 
chair. 

"  Well,  what  about  it  ? "  he  asked. 

"Eric,  old  man,"  I  began,  "I  was  at  Loos  — 
the  only  show  which  we  have  put  up  in  any  way 
comparable  with  to-morrow's  unpleasantness  — 
and  you  were  not ;  so  I  am  going  to  improve  the 
occasion.  The  great  ones  above  us  are  quite 
rightly  trying  to  fight  this  battle  on  the  basis  of 
the  lessons  taught  us  by  Loos  —  and  they  were 
pretty  considerable  lessons.  May  I  give  you  the 
experience  of  your  own  battalion  ? " 

"  Go  ahead  ! "  said  Eric,  resignedly  filling  his 
pipe  again. 

"  We  went  off  like  a  bull  at  a  gate,  and  bundled 
the  Boche  out  of  his  front  and  second  lines  in  a 
few  hours.  I  am  only  giving  you  our  own  ex- 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS   195 

perience,  mind  you.  Other  people  weren't  so  well 
placed,  and  got  practically  wiped  out  crossing 
No  Man's  Land.  On  the  other  hand,  a  Division 
farther  along  on  our  right  went  slap  through 
everything,  up  Hill  Seventy  and  down  the  other 
side.  (They  say  a  platoon  of  Camerons  pene- 
trated right  into  Lens.  Of  course  they  never 
came  out  again.)  Anyhow,  by  noon  on  the  first 
day  we  were  cock-a-hoop  enough,  right  up  in  the 
air  on  perfectly  open  ground  behind  the  Boche 
reserve  line,  without  the  foggiest  notion  where 
Brigade  Headquarters  was,  where  the  next  unit 
was  —  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  people  on  our 
immediate  left  were  farther  ahead  still,  while  the 
people  on  our  right  hadn't  got  up,  and  never  did 
—  where  our  artillery  was,  where  our  next  meal 
was  to  come  from,  and  what  we  were  going  to  do 
now  !  We  did  all  we  could,  which  wasn't  much. 
We  tried  to  reverse  the  captured  trenches,  with- 
out tools.  The  Sappers  turned  up,  as  Sappers 
invariably  do,  just  when  they  were  wanted  most, 
and  performed  marvels  in  the  way  of  improvising 
defences  ;  but  we  were  still  in  a  pretty  precarious 
position.  For  the  next  twenty-four  hours  nothing 
in  particular  happened.  Then  the  Boche,  who 
had  been  regularly  on  the  run,  rallied,  and  came 
stealing  back.  He  found  our  victorious  line 


196  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

echeloned  in  the  most  ridiculous  fashion  all  over 
the  place,  without  any  semblance  of  co-ordination, 
full  of  gaps  you  could  march  a  battalion  through. 
He  made  all  the  notes  he  wanted,  called  up  his 
reserves,  and  delivered  an  extremely  well  thought- 
out  counter-attack.  Strung  about  as  we  were,  he 
had  us  cold.  We  couldn't  get  up  any  ammuni- 
tion or  bombs.  Special  one-way  communication 
trenches  had  been  dug  for  the  purpose,  but  they, 
of  course,  were  jammed  with  traffic  going  the 
wrong  way — stretcher-parties,  prisoners,  and 
details  of  every  kind.  (Fifty  thousand  wounded 
went  back  to  Bethune  in  the  first  forty-eight 
hours.)  We  had  nothing  to  hope  for  from  the 
people  farther  back.  Our  gunners  were  there  all 
right,  ready  and  willing ;  but  they  didn't  know 
where  we  were,  and  dare  not  fire  for  fear  of  hitting 
us.  Whole  Divisions  of  reinforcements  were  try- 
ing to  get  through,  but  the  roads  were  packed 
with  transport.  In  multiplying  our  artillery  and 
machine  guns  we  had  overlooked  the  fact  that  for 
every  gun  you  put  into  the  line  you  add  at  least 
one  limber  or  waggon  to  the  general  unwieldi- 
ness  of  the  Divisional  Ammunition  Column.  The 
country  for  miles  behind  the  line  was  like  Epsom 
Downs  on  Derby  Day ;  nothing  could  get  through 
at  all.  It  was  forty-eight  hours  before  a  really 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS       197 

adequate  scheme  of  reinforcement  could  be  put 
into  effect,  and  by  that  time  we  were  practically 
back  where  we  started.  Up  to  a  point,  Loos  was 
a  well-conceived  and  splendidly  executed  opera- 
tion ;  but  after  the  first  rush  everything  got  out 
of  gear.  We  had  been  told  our  final  objective 
was  Brussels  !  With  a  little  luck  and  manage- 
ment we  might  have  got  Lille.  As  things  turned 
out  we  got  one  pit-village.  Luckily  we  got  a 
lesson  too  ;  and  to-morrow's  show  is  going  to  be 
fought  on  that  lesson.  We  are  to  advance  to  a 
fixed  line  and  stay  there,  so  as  to  eliminate  gaps  ; 
we  are  to  work  to  a  time-table,  to  enable  our 
gunners  to  fire  with  confidence  ;  and  we  are  to 
maintain  communication  from  front  to  rear  by 
a  very  carefully  prepared  scheme  of  one-way 
trenches  and  armoured  telephone  cables.  Hence 
all  the  pow-wows  and  the  little  notebooks,  Eric  ! " 

But  Eric  was  not  convinced.  He  was  in  his 
most  childish  mood. 

"  It  won't  work  !  It  won't  work  ! "  he  reiter- 
ated. "  It  sounds  all  right  at  the  pow-wows,  and 
reads  all  right  in  the  book  of  the  words,  but  you 
can't  perform  these  chess-board  antics  of  peace- 
time under  actual  war  conditions.  There  is  only 
one  way  to  win  big  battles,  and  that  is  by  initia- 
tive, resting  on  perfect  discipline  —  by  having 


198  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

each  separate  unit  disciplined  and  disciplined  to 
such  a  pitch  that  its  commander  can  handle  a 
thousand  rifles  like  a  single  pocket-pistol.  I  am 
vain  enough  to  believe  that  my  men  are  disciplined 
to  that  extent.  Some  of  the  other  units  are  not ; 
and  not  all  the  pow-wows  and  guide-books  in  the 
world  will  help  them  ! " 

He  rose,  and  began  to  buckle  on  his  equipment, 
whistling  through  his  teeth.  I  knew  that  sound, 
and  I  dropped  the  subject. 

"  Is  the  kick-off  hour  fixed  ? "  I  asked. 

"Yes.  About  three  hours  after  dawn  to- 
morrow ;  Kilbride  has  the  details.  We  are  going 
in  from  our  present  sector.  I  suppose  the  bat- 
talion are  all  ready  to  move  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  they  are  parading  now.  They  are 
timed  to  pass  through  Albert  after  dark,  and  take 
over  from  the  Mid-Mudshires  just  before  mid- 
night." 

"  Good  1  They  may  as  well  know  at  once  that 
they  are  going  to  attack,  if  they  haven't  guessed 
it  already.  I  shall  say  a  word  to  them  before  they 
move  off.  Are  they  all  going  together  ? " 

"No.  By  companies,  at  twenty  minutes  in- 
terval." 

"Well,  let  them  parade  together,  anyhow. 
After  I  have  spoken  to  them  I  shall  go  on  with  the 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  WORDS       199 

leading  company,  and  take  Kilbride  with  me.  I 
want  you  to  stay  here  and  clean  up.  Is  another 
unit  taking  over  this  billet  ? " 

"Yes — the  Mid-Mudshires  ;  we  are  simply 
changing  places  with  them.  I  am  expecting  their 
advance-party  at  any  moment." 

"  All  right.  When  you  have  handed  over,  come 
along  with  the  Orderly-room  staff  and  join  me. 
Have  you  much  left  to  do  here  ? " 

I  glanced  round  the  littered  table. 

"A  fair  amount.  You  are  taking  Kilbride 
yourself?" 

"  Yes.    Do  you  want  help  ? " 

"  If  you  could  spare  me  an  odd  subaltern —  " 

Eric  glanced  out  of  the  window,  to  where  the 
Headquarters  Company  were  parading  in  the 
muddy  road.  His  eye  fell  upon  Master  Roy, 
who,  a  little  apart,  was  inspecting  his  own 
particular  beloved  command  —  a  workmanlike 
squad  of  snipers.  Eric  swung  round. 

"  If  you  want  a  really  odd  subaltern,"  he  said, 
"take  young  Birnie  !  Appoint  him  Assistant 
Adjutant  for  the  occasion,  and  tell  him  to  send 
those  pop-gun  experts  of  his  back  to  duty  1 " 

I  fairly  gasped. 

"  You  will  break  their  hearts  ! "  I  said.  "  Can't 
you  use  them  as  scouts,  or — " 


200  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Eric  blazed  right  out  this  time. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Laing,  allow  me  to  command 
my  own  battalion!"  he  cried.  Then  —  charac- 
teristically—  "I'm  sorry,  old  boy!  You  mean 
well,  I  know  ;  but  really  I  must  do  things  my  own 
way.  We  don't  require  Bisley  specialists  in  a 
hand-to-hand  battle.  As  for  Roy  Birnie,  a  little 
less  sniping  and  a  little  more  intelligence  won't  do 
him  any  harm  at  all.  Now  I'm  off  to  harangue 
the  battalion.  Sergeant,  is  my  groom  outside  ? 
I  want  my  horse." 


CHAPTER  X 

DISCIPLINE  !     DISCIPLINE  !     DISCIPLINE  ! 

EXHORTATION  before  Action  was  a  form  of  mili- 
tary ceremonial  exactly  to  our  commander's  taste. 
I  had  heard  him  address  his  followers  many  a 
time.  Nearly  thirty  years  ago  I  had  formed  one 
of  an  audience  of  fourteen  —  shivering  in  shorts 
and  jerseys  in  an  east  wind  at  the  back  of  the 
school  pavilion  what  time  we  were  addressed  by 
one  Eric  Bethune,  about  to  lead  us  into  a  Final 
House  Match  which,  owing  to  the  size,  speed  and 
prestige  of  our  opponents,  could  be  regarded  as 
little  else  than  a  forlorn  hope.  We  won  that  Final 
House  Match.  I  decided  then,  and  have  never 
departed  from  that  belief,  that  no  more  gallant 
and  inspiring  leader  of  a  forlorn  hope  than  that 
same  Eric  could  have  been  found  among  the  man- 
hood of  our  race.  And  here  we  were  again,  eight 
hundred  strong  this  time,  gathered  in  hollow 
square  for  the  same  purpose. 

Eric  spoke  to  us  for  perhaps  five  minutes, 
sitting  his  horse  like  a  graven  image,  with  the  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  glinting  upon  his  burnished 
equipment.  ("Protective  dinginess"  was  ana- 


202  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

thema  in  Eric's  battalion.)  Around  him,  steel- 
helmeted,  perfectly  aligned,  motionless,  stood  his 
men.  It  was  characteristic  of  their  commander 
that  he  did  not  preface  his  address  with  the  order 
that  they  should  stand  at  ease.  All  ranks  re- 
mained rigidly  at  attention  while  he  spoke. 

I  need  not  repeat  his  words.  It  is  enough  to 
say  that,  having  heard  them,  I,  for  one,  would 
willingly  have  followed  the  speaker  anywhere  he 
chose  to  lead  me,  without  a  thought  (for  all  my 
fundamental  convictions  on  the  subject)  of  lim- 
ited objectives,  or  artillery  time-tables,  or  other 
mechanical  hindrances  to  free  fighting.  He 
moved  his  men,  too — representatives  of  the 
dourest  and  most  undemonstrative  element  of  the 
dourest  and  most  undemonstrative  nation  in  the 
world.  I  could  see  the  effect  of  his  words,  in  the 
glow  of  tanned  faces,  in  the  setting  of  square 
jaws,  in  the  further  stiffening  of  sturdy,  rigid 
bodies.  It  was  hard  to  decide  which  to  be  most 
proud  of — the  leader,  or  the  men.  I  glowed  in- 
wardly as  my  eye  ran  down  the  motionless  ranks. 
Great  hearts  !  Great  stuff !  And,  above  all, 
representative  stuff — truly  representative,  at 
last !  They  were  not  of  the  Regular  Army  type, 
nor  the  Territorial  type,  nor  Kitchener's  Army 
type.  They  were  of  the  National  Army — Britain 


DISCIPLINE!  DISCIPLINE!         203 

in  Arms — voluntary  Arms — The  Willing  Horse, 
reinforced  and  multiplied  to  his  most  superlative 
degree. 

Five  minutes  later  A  Company  were  stream- 
ing down  the  road  in  fours,  Eric  striding  at  their 
head  with  the  company  commander  and  adjutant. 
He  had  sent  his  horse  back  to  the  transport  lines, 
and  was  "  foot-slogging  "  exultantly  with  his  men. 
I  returned  to  the  farm  kitchen.  I  entered  rather 
suddenly.  Our  newly-appointed  assistant  adju- 
tant was  sitting  at  the  table,  with  his  head  buried 
in  his  arms.  His  back  was  to  the  door. 

I  tripped  heavily  upon  the  door-sill.  Roy  sat 
up  hurriedly,  and  busied  himself  with  the  papers 
before  him. 

"  Everything  cleared  up  now? "  I  asked  briskly, 
slipping  off  my  heavy  marching  equipment. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  a  muffled  voice  —  "very 
nearly." 

"  In  that  case,"  I  continued,  with  great  hearti- 
ness, "we  can  get  away  almost  immediately.  I 
am  expecting  our  relief  here  in  five  minutes." 

I  babbled  on  a  little  longer,  to  give  him  time  to 
recover.  Presently  he  turned  upon  me,  and  spoke. 
His  face  was  flushed — absurdly  like  his  mother's 
when  something  had  roused  her  chivalrous  indig- 
nation. 


204  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  Uncle  Alan,  it's  a  rotten  shame  !  I  had  a 
wonderful  scheme  all  mapped  out !  It  was  in 
Orders,  too  !  We  had  marked  down  all  sorts  of 
cushy  spots  for  sniping  Boche  machine  guns  from. 
I  had  an  aeroplane  map  of  our  sector,  with 
Thiepval,  and  Beaumont  Hamel,  and  everything! 
Now,  my  poor  chaps  are  all  sent  back  to  their 
companies,  where  they  will  be  treated  like  dirt ; 
and —  I  am  given  a  job  as  assistant  office  boy  ! " 

It  is  impossible  to  furnish  adequate  comfort  to 
a  man  who  has  been  deprived  unexpectedly  of  his 
first  independent  command.  I  merely  patted 
Roy's  shoulder,  and  said  gruffly  — 

"  Discipline,  Discipline,  Discipline,  lad  I  That's 
the  only  thing  that  matters  ! " 

Roy  sat  up  at  once.  He  was  a  soldier,  through 
and  through. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said.  "I  am 
afraid  I  was  mixing  up  Major  Laing  with  Uncle 
Alan  1  That  wasn't  the  game,  was  it  ?  My  error  ! 
It  shan't  occur  again."  He  smiled  resolutely. 
"  I  think  everything  is  in  order  now.  Shall  I  hand 
these  files  over  to  the  Orderly-room  sergeant  ? " 

"Righto!"  I  said.  "Was  that  a  despatch 
rider  I  saw  at  the  door  just  now  ?  " 

"  Yes — from  Brigade  Headquarters.  He  left 
two  messages." 


DISCIPLINE!  DISCIPLINE!        205 

"  Did  you  give  him  a  receipt  for  them  ? " 
"No.     He  slung  them  in  and  bolted  off.     I 

expect  Brigade  Headquarters  are  on  the  move, 

and  he  didn't  want  to  lose  touch  with  them." 
"  Never  mind  !    See  what  they  are  about." 
Roy  opened  the  first  envelope,  and  extracted 

a  field  despatch-form.     He  glanced  at  it,  and 

grinned. 

"  It's  lucky  we  got  this  before  going  up  into 

the  line  ! "  he  observed  ;    and  read  aloud  : 

The  expression  "Dud"  must  no  longer  be  employed  in 
Official  Correspondence. 

"  It's  a  memo  from  Olympus,"  I  explained : 
"  They  mean  well,  but  their  sense  of  proportion  is 
not  what  it  might  be.  And  the  next  article  ?  " 

Roy  did  not  reply.  I  looked  up.  His  face  was 
as  white  as  chalk.  He  was  breathing  heavily 
through  his  nose,  staring  in  a  stupefied  fashion 
at  the  flimsy  pink  slip  in  his  hand. 

"  My  God  !"  he  muttered  ;  "My  God!  It'll 
break  his  heart." 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter,  old  man  ?"  I 
leaned  across  the  table.  Roy  thrust  the  despatch 
towards  me. 

"From  Divisional  Headquarters,"  he  said, 
mechanically.  "The  Brigade  Major  has  sent  it 
on." 


206  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

The  message  was  quite  brief  : 

Lt.-Col.  E.  F.  B.  Bethune,  D.S.O.,  commanding  Sec- 
ond Battalion,  Royal  Covenanters,  will  return  home 
•forthwith  and  report  to  War  Office. 

Pinned  to  the  despatch  was  a  hastily  scrawled 
covering  slip  from  the  Brigade  Major  : 

Passed  to  you,  for  immediate  compliance,  please. 

The  next  thing  that  I  remember  was  Roy's 
voice  : 

"  They've  done  it  on  him  1  The  dirty  dogs  ! 
They're  sending  him  home  1  Did  you  —  know  ? " 

"No !  Yes  !  Well,  I  was  half  afraid  of  it. 
I  knew  the  people  higher  up  were  getting  a  bit 
restive  :  in  fact,  I  tried  to  warn  him  only  this 
afternoon.  But  I  never  dreamed  they  would 
strike  back  at  a  moment  like  this.  You  are  right, 
Roy  —  it  will  break  his  heart."  ( It  was  the  second 
occasion  upon  which  I  had  employed  that  phrase 
within  the  last  hour. ) 

Another  thought  struck  Roy. 

"  You  are  in  command  now  ! "  he  said. 

"  I  suppose  so  ;  but  not  until  this  despatch  is 
actually  delivered  to  the  Colonel." 

We  were  silent  again.  We  were  both  picturing 
the  same  scene,  I  fancy.  Presently  Roy  said  : 

"  If  only  it  had  been  delayed  in  some  way  ! " 


DISCIPLINE!  DISCIPLINE!        207 

I  nodded. 

"Even  for  a  day  !  —  " 

"  Even  for  an  hour  !  —  " 

"  Even  for  ten  minutes  !  We  should  have  been 
gone  out  of  this  place,  and  they  would  not  have 
got  us  until  the  show  was  over  1 " 

Our  eyes  met,  then  dropped  hurriedly.  We 
had  read  one  another's  thoughts.  Discipline, 
Discipline,  Discipline  ! 

Roy  picked  up  the  two  despatches,  folded  them, 
and  put  them  mechanically  into  the  pocket  of  his 
field  despatch-book.  Then  he  cleared  his  throat 
huskily.  I  found  myself  doing  the  same. 

"  Look  here  !  —  "  we  began  both  at  once. 

A  cheery  voice  interrupted  us  : 

"  Good  evening,  sir.  Is  this  Caterpillar  Farm?" 

We  both  jumped,  like  detected  conspirators. 

In  the  doorway  stood  a  subaltern,  saluting, 
with  the  totem  of  the  Royal  Mid-Mudshire 
Regiment  stencilled  upon  his  tin  bowler. 

"Come  in,"  I  said.  "This  is  the  place  you 
want.  I  presume  you  have  come  to  take  over  ?  " 

About  midnight,  the  Orderly-room  Staff  filed 
through  the  ghostly  streets  of  Albert,  to  the  music 
of  innumerable  big  guns  working  up  to  their  final 
spasm.  At  their  head  marched  a  silent  ma j  or  and 
a  preoccupied  assistant  adjutant. 


208  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Next  morning,  just  after  dawn,  the  Second 
Royal  Covenanters  went  raging  to  the  opening 
attack  of  the  greatest  battle  yet  fought  in  the 
history  of  warfare.  We  were  led  into  action  by 
our  Commanding  Officer,  Eric  Bethune. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ENFIN  I 

IF  those  years  brought  unprecedented  misery  to 
the  human  family,  they  had  their  compensating 
moments  —  especially  for  those  most  deeply  con- 
cerned. Lovers,  for  instance — true  lovers. 
When  two  people  really  love  one  another,  and  are 
limited  by  inexorable  circumstances  to  rare  and 
brief  periods  of  companionship,  each  one  of  which 
may  be  the  very  last  —  and  each  succeeding  day 
of  those  four  years  saw  some  six  hundred  British 
soldiers  of  all  ranks  go  back  from  Leave  never  to 
return — their  love  is  lifted  to  heights,  and 
breathes  an  atmosphere,  of  which  ordinary  work- 
aday lovers  can  know  nothing.  Poor  peace-time 
lovers  —  sitting  holding  hands  in  a  conservatory, 
or  spooning  on  a  golf  course — what  do  they 
know  ?  Faced  by  a  future  all  their  own  ( and 
the  enervating  consciousness  that  there  will  prob- 
ably be  a  good  deal  of  it),  what  do  they  know  ? 
What  do  they  know  of  the  blind  rapture  of  Six 
Days'  Leave  ? 

Roy's  telegram  preceded  him  by  exactly  one 


210  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

hour,  so  Marjorie  had  little  time  to  get  excited. 
She  merely  embraced  Liss,  changed  her  frock, 
embraced  Liss  again,  changed  her  frock  again, 
and  dashed  off  to  Victoria.  After  that  her 
recollection  of  events  went  out  of  focus  a  little. 
She  had  watched  the  arrival  of  the  Leave-train 
so  often  merely  as  a  benevolent  spectator,  that 
sudden  and  personal  participation  in  that  func- 
tion disarranged  her  perspectives. 

She  caught  sight  of  Roy  almost  at  once  — 
singling  out  his  glengarry  from  among  the  flat 
caps  and  steel  helmets.  He  was  politely  resisting 
the  importunity  of  an  elderly  gentleman  in  a  grey 
uniform  and  a  red  brassard,  bent  on  luring  him 
to  a  free  ride  upon  the  Underground  Railway. 
Next  moment,  Marjorie  had  slipped  her  arm 
through  his.  After  that,  neither  of  them  remem- 
bered anything  much  until  they  found  themselves 
sitting  hand  in  hand  in  a  taxi,  gliding  stealthily 
through  the  darkened  streets  of  London,  both 
feeling  a  little  constrained  and  embarrassed. 
Re-united  lovers,  especially  of  our  nation,  do  not 
always  spark  immediately  on  contact.  We  are  a 
highly-insulated  race. 

"  They  keep  this  old  place  pretty  dark,"  said 
Roy,  peering  out  of  the  cab  window.  "Zeppelins, 
I  suppose  ?  " 


ENFIN!  211 

"  Yes.    We  had  some  last  week." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  one  ? " 

"Rather!" 

Roy  laughed,  constrainedly. 

"It's  funny  you  should  have  seen  something 
in  this  war  that  I  haven't,"  he  said.  "  Where  are 
we  going  ? " 

"  To  my  flat." 

Roy  turned  and  surveyed  Marjorie's  profile  in 
the  dim  light  of  the  cab. 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  see  you  properly  then,"  he 
announced  with  satisfaction.  "  It's  as  dark  as 
the  inside  of  a  cow  here.  Have  you  changed  at 
all,  I  wonder?" 

"You  will  find  I  am  quite  a  big  girl  now," 
replied  Marjorie,  laughing  constrainedly. 

Roy  laughed  too,  and  his  face  came  closer  to 
hers.  Her  hair  brushed  his  lips.  Next  moment 
their  arms  were  about  one  another. 

Five  minutes  later,  they  groped  their  way 
mechanically  upstairs  to  Marjorie's  landing, 
while  a  slightly  incredulous  taxi-driver,  with  one 
of  the  newly-invented  pound  notes  in  his  oily 
palm,  drove  hurriedly  away  before  somebody 
came  out  of  the  chloroform. 

"You  are  thinner,  dear,  and  older — much 
older,"  was  Marjorie's  verdict  when  they  found 


THE  WILLING  HORSE 

themselves  under  the  lamp  by  the  sofa.  "You 
look  more  like  thirty  than  twenty.  I  expect 
things  have  been  pretty  awful  sometimes,  haven't 
they?" 

Roy  nodded.  "Yes,  sometimes,"  he  said. 
"I'll  tell  you  about  it  one  day."  Then,  suddenly 
and  boyishly  :  "  Dearest,  you  look  wonderful ! " 

It  was  no  more  than  the  truth.  Marjorie  had 
felt  tired  enough  a  couple  of  hours  ago  ;  but  now 
her  cheeks  were  pink,  and  her  eyes  glowed.  Her 
hair  had  suddenly  recovered  its  lustre.  For  the 
first  time  in  six  months  she  looked  what  she  was — 
twenty.  But  she  realised  that  the  old  Roy  could 
never  come  back  to  her.  Her  smooth-cheeked 
schoolboy  was  gone,  and  in  his  place  she  had  a 
man — thin  as  a  lath,  healthily  bronzed,  and 
curiously  grave.  The  Western  Front  lost  no  time 
in  making  a  man  in  those  days — or  breaking  him. 

They  kissed  again,  with  absolute  lack  of  shyness 
this  time.  Suddenly  a  thought  struck  Marjorie. 

"  Good  gracious  ! "  she  cried.  "  What  time  is 
it?" 

"  Seven  o'clock.    Why?" 

"My  dear — the  theatre!  I'd  forgotten  all 
about  it.  I  am  an  honest  working  girl,  and  the 
curtain  goes  up  at  eight-thirty  1 " 

"  By  gum  ! "  said  Roy,  who  of  course  knew  all 


ENFIN!  213 

about "  Too  Many  Girls."  "  Absent  from  parade 
when  warned  for  duty,  eh  ?  That  will  never  do. 
What  about  it  ?  Can't  you  get  a  night  off  ? " 

"I  might,"  said  Marjorie  doubtfully.  "Most 
of  the  girls  send  a  doctor's  certificate.  But  I 
don't  think  it's  the  game.  They  overdo  it  so." 

"  Quite  right ! "  said  that  young  disciplinarian, 
Lieutenant  Birnie.  "But  it's  a  bit  rough,  all 
the  same." 

A  key  rattled  loudly  and  tactfully  in  the  outer 
door,  which  then  opened  with  mature  delibera- 
tion, and  Liss  appeared. 

"I  hadn't  meant  to  butt  in,"  she  explained, 
after  introductions,  "but  I  just  want  to  say  that 
I  have  seen  Lancaster,  and  he  says  you  can  have 
the  night  off.  I  told  him  about  you,"  she  ex- 
plained to  Roy,  "  and  he  said  you  could  have  her 
this  evening  if  you  promised  faithfully  to  send 
her  back  for  to-morrow's  show." 

"  I  will  bring  her  back  myself,"  replied  Roy, 
"and  buy  the  whole  front  row  to  watch  her  from ! " 

"Righto  !  Good-bye,  children  !  Enjoy  your- 
selves 1 "  said  Liss,  and  vanished,  like  a  diplo- 
matic little  wraith. 

After  that,  Roy  and  Marjorie  sat  down  to 
make  plans. 

"  First  of  all,"  began  Roy,  "  I  must  hop  off  to 


214  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

the  club  and  order  a  bed  and  have  a  hot  bath — a 
real  hot  bath  !  Sah  vdh  song  dearie,  as  we  say  at 
the  Quai  D'Orsay.  My  last  one  was  in  a  little 
house  somewhere  behind  Albert,  in  a  sort  of  zinc 
coffin  in  front  of  the  kitchen  stove,  with  the 
family  sitting  tactfully  in  the  scullery.  But  I  am 
digressing  :  let  us  resume  1  After  that,  we  will 
go  and  dine  somewhere.  By  the  way,  I  suppose 
there  is  still  plenty  of  food  to  be  had  in  these 
days?" 

"  There  is  a  shortage  of  potatoes  at  present,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,"  replied  Marjorie  in  her  best 
canteen  manner.  "  But  —  " 

"  We  can  worry  along  without  potatoes,"  said 
Roy.  "What  I  chiefly  want  is  to  dine  off  a 
table  covered  with  a  white  cloth  instead  of  a 
newspaper  ;  and  drink  out  of  a  glass  instead  of 
a  tin  cup.  I  think  the  Carlton  will  meet  the  case. 
Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear  !  I  can't  believe  it  all  yet ! 
Are  you  really  here  ? "  .  .  . 

At  this  rate  of  progress  it  was  nine  o'clock 
before  they  sat  down  to  the  feast,  which  was  served 
to  them  by  an  obsequious  neutral  in  a  corner  of 
the  big  restaurant.  It  was  a  luxurious  dinner  for 
war  time,  though  bully  beef  and  stewed  tea  would 
have  served  equally  well.  Reunited  lovers  are 
not,  as  a  rule,  fastidious. 


ENFIN!  215 

They  talked  steadily  now,  unfolding  reminis- 
cence after  reminiscence.  Roy  had  most  to  tell ; 
for  Marjorie's  adventures  had  been  faithfully 
recorded  in  her  daily  letters,  while  Roy,  as 
previously  noted,  had  usually  confined  himself  to 
breezy  irrelevance. 

"  Uncle  Alan  is  in  command  now,"  he  said.  "  I 
suppose  you  heard  that  the  Colonel  had  been 
knocked  out  ?  " 

"  Colonel  Bethune  ?  Yes,  I  saw  it  in  the 
paper."  To  her  own  annoyance,  Marjorie  felt 
her  colour  rising.  But  Roy  noticed  nothing. 

"Yes,  he  stopped  a  five-point-nine  with  his 
left  arm  on  the  second  day  of  the  Somme  show, 
and  went  home  without  it.  We  were  in  a  pretty 
tight  place  at  the  time,  and  it  was  a  bit  of  a  job 
getting  him  away.  But  I  hear  he's  all  right  again 
now,  though  short  of  a  fin.  Have  you  seen  him 
by  any  chance  ? " 

"Not  since  April,"  said  Marjorie.  "He  was 
in  London  then,  on  leave."  She  was  feeling 
thoroughly  self-conscious,  and  despised  herself 
for  it. 

"They  gave  him  a  bar  to  his  D.S.O.,"  continued 
Roy.  "  He  deserved  it  too,  for  what  he  did." 

"  What  did  he  do  ? "  asked  Marjorie  jealously. 
She  was  a  little  critical  of  a  system  which  gave  a 


216  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

decoration  to  a  man  for  getting  wounded  and 
coming  home,  and  nothing  to  those  who  had  to 
remain  and  carry  on. 

"  We  were  right  up  in  the  air,"  explained  Roy, 
"uncovered  on  both  flanks.  We  did  not  know 
where  we  were  ;  Brigade  Headquarters  didn't 
know  where  we  were,  so  couldn't  reinforce  us  ; 
and  the  gunners  didn't  know  where  we  were,  so 
couldn't  fire  for  fear  of  hitting  us.  The  only 
person  who  really  knew  where  we  were  was  the 
Boche  —  a  well-informed  little  fellow,  the  Boche  ! 
—  and  he  gave  it  to  us  good  and  hard.  But  the 
Colonel  was  wonderful.  We  had  no  cover  in 
particular,  beyond  a  kneeling-trench  which  we 
had  scooped  out  for  ourselves.  There  was  no 
room  for  any  officer  to  pass  up  and  down,  so  we 
all  stayed  where  we  found  ourselves,  as  ordered, 
and  controlled  our  fire  as  well  as  possible.  But 
the  Colonel  came  walking  to  us  across  the  open 
from  Battalion  Headquarters  —  an  old  mine- 
crater  about  a  hundred  yards  in  rear  of  us  —  and 
strolled  right  along  our  whole  front  from  end  to 
end,  with  Boche  snipers  taking  pot-shots  at  him 
all  the  time  ;  looking  as  if  he  had  just  come  out  of 
his  tailor's — he  had  gloves  on  !  —  stopping  here 
and  there  to  talk  to  the  men,  and  telling  them  that 
no  battalion  of  the  Covenanters  had  ever  been 


ENFIN!  217 

known  to  go  back,  and  that  reinforcements  were 
coming  up,  and  how  pleased  he  was  to  see  us  so 
steady.  (We  weren't  feeling  a  bit  steady, 
really. )  The  trenches  were  full  of  wounded  men 
whom  we  couldn't  get  away.  He  stopped  and 
spoke  to  them  all — by  name  !  —  and  gave  them 
cigarettes.  The  result  was  that  when  the  Boche 
attacked,  our  fellows  fought  like  tigers.  It  was 
after  the  attack  got  round  our  undefended  flanks 
that  the  hard  time  began.  Finally,  their  gunners 
got  our  range,  and  simply  blew  us  out  of  the 
trench.  Even  then  the  C.O.  wouldn't  give  in. 
He  stood  on  the  parapet,  giving  fire  orders  as 
cool  as  you  please,  and  telling  us  how  well  we 
were  doing.  Finally  he  was  hit.  They  carried 
him  away  on  a  blanket,  insensible,  and  Uncle 
Alan  took  command.  By  this  time  we  were  sur- 
rounded on  three  sides  —  enfiladed,  and  every- 
thing. Uncle  Alan  passed  word  along  that  we 
were  to  fall  back  slowly  to  our  proper  place  in  the 
line." 

"  Your  proper  place  ? " 

"Yes.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  about  that.  We 
had  overrun  our  objective,  it  seemed.  Every- 
body else  in  the  brigade  was  snugly  dug  in  about 
half  a  mile  behind  us,  on  a  continuous  line,  except 
for  a  gap  that  we  ought  to  have  been  filling.  We 


218  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

got  there  at  last,  but  it  was  a  pretty  awful  walk. 
We  got  all  our  wounded  away,  though." 

"  Were  there  many  ?  " 

"  A  good  lot.  It  was  bad  luck  getting  into  that 
position  at  all.  However,  we  got  a  tremendous 
pat  on  the  back  from  the  Divisional  Commander 
afterwards.  Apparently  there  had  been  some 
misunderstanding  about  orders.  Now  let  us  talk 
about  something  else." 

And  that  was  as  much  as  was  ever  told  of  the 
story  of  how  Eric  Bethune's  lofty  contempt  for 
the  "  book  of  the  words  "  led  a  fine  battalion  into 
a  skilfully  baited  death-trap. 

After  that  they  talked,  as  lovers  will,  of  the 
present.  They  even  spoke  of  the  future  —  a  sub- 
ject upon  which,  in  those  days,  few  young  people 
cared  to  hazard  conjecture  in  cold  blood.  But 
to-night  their  blood  ran  hot  and  high.  The  world 
was  theirs  —  for  six  days. 

"To-morrow  morning,"  continued  Roy,  with 
an  air  of  immense  authority,  "I  shall  take  you  out 
and  buy  you  an  engagement  ring.  It  is  perfectly 
scandalous  your  going  about  with  me  in  this  way 
without  one  !  ( Still,  I  suppose  you  will  have  to 
wear  it  round  your  neck  on  a  string,  anyway ! ) 
After  that,  a  little  shopping !  I  suppose  there 
will  be  no  harm  if  I  buy  you  some  things  —  long 


ENFIN!  219 

gloves,  and  high-heel  shoes,  and  silk  stockings, 
and  things  like  that  ?  We'll  throw  in  a  nice 
sensible  umbrella,  as  a  chaperon  !  Then  in  the 
evening  we  will  dine  early,  so  as  to  give  you 
plenty  of  time  to  get  to  your  show." 

Marjorie  laid  her  slim  fingers  upon  Roy's 
brown  paw. 

"  Darling,"  she  said  firmly,  "  to-morrow  morn- 
ing I  am  going  to  take  you  to  a  railway  station, 
and  you  are  going  to  take  the  train  to  Scotland, 
to  see  your  father  I " 

Roy's  face  fell  ludicrously.  Then  the  smile  he 
had  inherited  from  his  mother  came  suddenly 
back.  He  was  all  contrition. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  You  had  me  there,  dear. 
I  own  up  I  For  the  last  twenty-four  hours  my 
noble  parent  has  entirely  escaped  my  memory. 
As  soon  as  they  told  me  that  I  could  go  on  leave  I 
simply  grabbed  my  haversack,  asked  the  Buzzers 
to  send  a  wire,  and  then  sprinted  for  the  rail- 
head. Poor  old  dad  !  Of  course  you're  right.  I 
haven't  had  a  line  from  him  for  six  weeks,  by  the 
way.  I'll  send  a  telegram  to  Baronrigg  at  once, 
and  start  to-morrow."  Then  he  added  anxiously : 

"  How  long  must  I  stay  ?  " 

Marjorie  considered. 

"Your  father  doesn't  know  anything  about 
me,  of  course  ?  "  she  said. 


220  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  No  ;  nobody  knows.  It's  our  secret — ours, 
and  no  one  else's  ! "  The  impulsive  pair  squeezed 
hands  upon  the  secret,  instantly  revealing  it  to 
the  obsequious  neutral  aforementioned.  "  Still, 
perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  if  I  told  him,  eh  ? 
Then  he  couldn't  object  to  my  coming  back  here 
pretty  quick." 

"  Supposing  he  doesn't  approve  ? "  said  Mar- 
jorie  doubtfully.  "He  doesn't  know  me  —  nor 
my  people,  so  far  as  I  am  aware.  Or  perhaps  he 
does,  which  might  be  worse  ! " 

"  My  old  dad's  a  white  man,"  said  Roy  stoutly. 
"  He'd  understand.  He  knows  what  it  is  for  a 
fellow  to  have  to  go  without.  He  once  had  to 
endure  seeing  his  girl — my  mother  —  engaged 
to  another  man  for  several  months.  He'll  under- 
stand, all  right ! " 

"I  never  knew  that,"  said  Marjorie.  "Who 
was  the  other  man  ? " 

"  Colonel  Bethune.  Of  course  he  was  only  a 
subaltern  then." 

"  Who  ?  "  Marjorie  was  fairly  startled  out  of 
herself  this  time. 

"Eric  Bethune,  our  C.O.  I  thought  that 
would  surprise  you  !  I  never  knew  myself  until 
a  few  months  ago.  Uncle  Alan  told  me.  The 
Colonel  has  always  been  rather  heavily  down  on 


ENFIN!  221 

me  —  I  never  knew  why — and  one  day  when  I 
was  more  than  usually  fed  up  with  things  in 
general,  having  just  been  informed  by  my  com- 
manding officer  that  I  was  not  fit  to  hold  the 
King's  Commission,  old  Uncle  Alan  told  me  all 
about  it.  He  explained  that  the  Colonel  didn't 
really  think  me  a  dud  soldier  ;  he  was  only  peeved 
at  not  being  my  father.  Fancy  disliking  a 
fellow  for  that !  It's  a  queer  world  ! " 

Queer  indeed !  Marjorie,  better  informed 
than  Roy,  mused  upon  the  diabolical  trick  of  fate 
which  had  caused  a  man  to  be  baulked  of  the  only 
thing  that  really  matters  by  two  successive  gen- 
erations—  first  by  the  father,  then  by  the  son. 
For  the  first  time  she  felt  a  genuine  pang  of  pity 
for  Eric  Bethune.  But  it  passed,  in  a  flash. 
Eric  was  "heavily  down  on"  Roy  —  her  Roy! 
All  her  generous  soul  revolted  at  the  pettiness  of 
such  a  revenge. 

"I  often  wondered,"  continued  Roy,  "why 
my  mother  broke  it  off.  I  don't  believe  Uncle 
Alan  knew.  Why  was  it,  do  you  think  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Marjorie.    But  she  did. 

Five  minutes  later  they  arrived  at  the  theatre 
where  the  musical  comedy  —  or  musical  tragedy  : 
you  never  know  —  of  their  choice  was  in  progress. 


222  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

The  vestibule  was  deserted,  but  Roy  held  open 
the  swing  door  and  ushered  Marjorie  into  the 
darkened  auditorium.  A  blast  of  hot  air  and  a 
concerted  feminine  screech  greeted  them. 

"  The  curtain's  up,"  said  Roy.  "  Come  along  1 
Our  seats  are  in  the  back  row,  on  the  gangway. 
Rotten,  but  convenient ! " 

They  slipped  unostentatiously  into  their  places. 
The  company  were  massed  upon  the  stage  ;  the 
orchestra  was  in  full  cry  ;  the  young  persons  of 
the  Chorus  were  in  a  state  of  unwonted  animation. 
In  the  centre,  a  lady  of  ravishing  beauty  was 
melting  into  the  arms  of  a  distinguished-looking 
individual  just  over  military  age.  Humourists 
supported  either  flank. 

"  This  is  going  to  be  some  show  ! "  announced 
Roy,  groping  for  Marjorie's  hand,  and  surveying 
the  chorus  with  all  the  appreciation  of  a  Robinson 
Crusoe  of  six  months'  standing.  "I  shouldn't 
mind  being  Adjutant  of  that  battalion !  Not 
that  any  of  them  could  walk  down  the  same 
street  with  you  !  Hallo,  hallo  !  What's  all  this  ? 
The  interval !  We  must  have  come  in  late." 

The  curtain  fell,  and  the  audience,  with  one 
accord,  rose  to  their  feet  and  made  for  the  doors. 
The  band  offered  a  hurried  tribute  to  the  Crown. 
Roy  looked  at  his  watch,  and  turned  to  Marjorie 
with  a  comical  grimace. 


ENFIN!  223 

"  Eleven  o'clock  ! "  he  announced.  "  We  must 
have  sat  over  dinner  a  bit  longer  than  we 
thought.  The  show's  over  !  Does  it  matter  ? " 

"  Nothing  in  the  world  matters — this  week  1" 
said  Marjorie,  taking  his  arm. 


CHAPTER  XII 

TOM   BIENIE 
I 

ROY  was  duly  despatched  to  Scotland  the  follow- 
ing morning. 

"When  does  your  leave  end?"  Marjorie 
asked,  as  they  waited  for  the  crowded  train  to 
start. 

"Let  me  see — this  is  Friday.  I  go  back  by 
the  leave-train  next  Wednesday  afternoon  —  " 

"  Then  travel  back  here  on  Sunday  night," 
said  Marjorie  ;  "unless,  of  course,  you  can  per- 
suade your  father  to  come  back  with  you  at  once." 

Roy  pondered. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "that  it  wouldn't  be 
better  to  stick  the  week-end  out  at  Baronrigg, 
and  then  come  back  alone,  and  have  you  all  to 
myself." 

Your  true  lover  is  an  uncompromising  egotist. 
Marjorie  at  once  recognised  the  superiority  of 
Roy's  view. 

"All  right,"  she  said.  "  There's  the  whistle  ! 
Get  into  the  train,  little  man.  S  end  me  a  telegram 
when  you  arrive." 


TOM  BIRNIE  225 

She  watched  the  long  train  crawl  out  of  sight, 
and  went  back  to  the  flat  with  a  hungry  heart. 
Six  days  !  And  she  had  to  give  him  up  for  three 
of  them  !  Still,  it  was  the  game. 

But  she  had  not  to  wait  so  long.  Roy  burst 
into  the  flat  about  noon  the  very  next  day — to 
the  entire  bouleversement  of  Liss,  who  was  a 
dilatory  dresser.  Redirected  by  her  (from behind 
the  bathroom  door)  he  sought  Marjorie  at  the 
canteen,  dragged  her  almost  forcibly  out  to  lunch, 
and  communicated  his  news  in  a  breath. 

"  Baronrigg  is  closed  up  tight !  Has  been  for 
six  weeks  !  Dad  put  all  his  affairs  into  order  at 
the  beginning  of  last  month,  and  disappeared  1 " 

"  Disappeared  ?    What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Well,  he  simply  shut  up  the  house,  gave  what 
servants  were  left  by  the  war  a  year's  wages, 
walked  to  the  station,  and  took  the  train  for 
London.  He  hasn't  been  heard  of  since." 

"  But  where  has  he  gone  ? " 

"Nobody  knows!" 

"  Was  he  ill,  or  anything  ? " 

"  No.  By  all  accounts  he  was  as  hard  as  nails 
and  as  fit  as  a  fiddle." 

"  But  didn't  he  leave  any  message  ? "  asked 
Marjorie,  bewildered. 

"Yes,"  replied  Roy,  unbuttoning  his  tunic 


226  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

pocket,  "he  did.  This  letter,  for  me.  I  got  it 
from  old  Gillespie  at  the  Bank.  I  expect  Dad 
knew  I'd  pop  in  there  ! " 

"But  doesn't  it  explain  ?"  asked  Marjorie. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Roy  calmly.  "  I  haven't 
opened  it  yet." 

"  You  have  had  it  for  a  day  and  a  night,  and 
haven't  opened  it  ? " 

"  No.  I  wanted  to  wait  until  you  and  I  could 
read  it  together." 

"  But  weren't  you  dying  of  curiosity  ? " 

"I  was,  rather.    Still,  I  said  to  myself  —  " 

Marjorie  slipped  her  arm  impulsively  into  his. 

"  Roy,  dearest,"  she  said,  "  I  could  never  have 
done  that  I " 

It  was  the  first  and  last  time  Marjorie  ever 
admitted  to  Roy  that  her  sex  was  in  any  way 
inferior  to  his.  They  returned  to  the  flat  and 
read  the  letter  together.  That  is  to  say,  Roy 
read  it  aloud  to  Marjorie  : 

My  dear  Son, 

You  will  remember  that  when  the  war  broke  out  I  was 
among  those  who  thought  it  might  have  been  avoided. 
I  was  also  numbered  among  those  who  thought  it  would 
be  a  short  war.  I  was  wrong  in  both  views. 

My  errors  did  not  end  there.  I  was  not  in  favour  of 
the  raising  of  a  great  army.  My  opinion  was  that  we 
should  limit  our  efforts  to  the  efficient  policing  of  the 


TOM  BIRNIE  227 

seas,  the  supplying  of  munitions  and  equipment  to 
France  and  Russia,  and  the  enforcement  of  a  great  com- 
mercial blockade  against  the  enemy.  Neither  honour 
nor  interest,  I  said,  demanded  more  of  us.  When  our 
young  men  left  all  and  followed  the  Colours  without,  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  pausing  to  reason  why,  I  was  inclined 
to  regard  them  as  hysterical  Jingoes. 

"  I  remember  him  saying  that,"  observed  Roy. 
"  We  had  quite  a  battle  before  he  would  let  me 
apply  for  a  commission." 

The  war  has  now  been  in  progress  for  two  years.  My 
first  purpose  in  writing  to  you  is  to  acknowledge  to  you 
that  in  your  conception  of  national  duty  you,  my  son, 
were  right  and,  1,  your  father,  was  wrong. 

"It  was  decent  of  him  to  put  in  that,"  said 
Roy,  looking  up  again. 

1  realise  now  that  not  only  was  the  war  inevitable,  but 
that  unless  we  make  a  superhuman  effort  as  a  nation  we 
shall  not  win  it.  That  realisation,  unfortunately,  is 
not  universal  in  this  district.  Most  of  our  people  have 
done  magnificently,  and  I  shall  always  be  proud  to  think 
that  my  only  son  was  among  the  first  and  the  youngest 
to  volunteer. 

"This,"  commented  Roy,  "is  darned  embar- 
rassing to  read  aloud." 

"  Go  on  ! "  commanded  Marjorie  :  "  I  love 
it!" 


228  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Indeed,  the  effort  has  been  too  great.  Too  high  a  tax 
has  been  levied  on  spontaneous  loyalty.  The  general 
enthusiasm  of  the  country  has  not  been  maintained. 
Consequently  the  best  of  our  stock,  both  gentle  and 
simple,  is  bearing  the  burden  alone,  at  a-  cost  which  is 
ruining  the  future  of  the  country. 

That  brings  me  to  the  second  thing  I  have  to  say  to 
you.  In  this  very  neighbourhood  there  are  many  blind 
optimists,  many  drifters,  many  irritating  phrase- 
mongers, and  a  certain  number  of  so-called  Conscien- 
tious Objectors  to  warfare. 

"  He  must  have  met  Amos  ! "  said  Marjorie. 

These  latter  are  not  dangerous  :  their  very  cowardice 
makes  it  easy  to  deal  with  them.  Far  more  pernicious 
are  the  optimists,  the  drifters,  and  the  phrase-mongers. 
Yesterday,  at  a  meeting  of  the  Territorial  Association, 
I  met  a  typical  specimen  —  Mr.  Sanders,  of  Braefoot. 
You  may  know  him. 

"I  do,"  said  Roy,  grinning.  "A  celebrated 
captain  of  industry,  now  a  county  magnate  — 
Nineteen-Thirteen  vintage  1" 

This  man  said  to  me:  "  Sir  Thomas,  what  I  like 
about  the  situation  is  the  way  we  are  all  doing  our  bit. 
I,  for  instance,  have  been  working  overtime  on  Govern- 
ment contracts  for  two  years.  I  have  bought  nearly 
one  hundred  thousand  pounds  worth  of  War  Bonds,  and 
I  have  given  seven  nephews  to  the  Army.  Pretty  good, 
eh  ?  "  By  what  authority,  or  with  whose  knowledge,  he 
had  presented  other  men's  sons  to  the  Army  he  did  not 
explain. 


TOM  BIRNIE  229 

Roy,  I  am  ashamed  of  such  people.  But  wlio  am  I 
to  be  ashamed  of  anyone  but  myself  for  not  realising 
sooner  —  as  soon  as  you  —  that  in  this  sacred  cause  of 
ours  there  is  only  one  thing  that  counts,  and  that  is 
personal  service  ?  I  am  sound  in  wind  and  limb,  and  I 
have  no  helpless  dependents.  To-morrow  I  am  going  to 
London  to  join  the  Army.  As  an  earnest  of  the  fact 
that  I  do  so  in  the  spirit  of  humility  and  contrition, 
and  not  from  any  desire  to  pose  or  advertise,  I  shatt 
communicate  my  intention  to  no  one  but  yourself.  I 
shall  enlist  as  a  private  soldier,  but  in  a  unit  where  I  am 
not  likely  to  meet  any  one  I  know  ;  and  I  pray  God  that 
he  will  enable  me  to  serve  my  country  as  effectively  as 
my  own  dear  son. 

Roy's  voice  shook  a  little.  He  had  just  made 
his  father's  acquaintance. 

Should  I  not  come  back,  you  wiU  find  my  affairs  in 
perfect  order,  and  Baronrigg  waiting  for  you.  Your 
trustees  are  Lord  Eskerley  and  Alan  Laing.  Should 
neither  of  us  come  back  — 

"Don't  read  any  more,  dear,"  said  Marjorie. 

"All  right  I"  replied  Roy.  "That's  practi- 
cally all  now."  He  folded  the  letter  and  put  it 
away  in  his  tunic. 

"I  wish,"  he  added  thoughtfully— "I  wish 
fathers  and  sons  could  get  to  know  one  another  a 
bit  better  while  they  have  the  chance  ! "  Then, 
"  I  wonder  what  regiment  he  enlisted  in !  I 
wonder  if  we  shall  ever  meet  out  there !  I'm 


230  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

sorry  he  didn't  see  you  before  he  went.  You'd 
have  liked  him,  I  think." 

"I  like  him  now,"  said  Marjorie,  with  shining 
eyes.  "  I  think  he's  splendid  !  And  " — she  broke 
into  a  happy  laugh  —  "  I  like  him  particularly  at 
this  moment,  because  he  has  given  you  to  me  for 
four  days  more  instead  of  two  ! " 

"  Let's  go  shopping ! "  said  Roy,  rising  im- 
portantly. 

ii 

AFTER  a  gloriously  deliberate  start,  the  six  days, 
as  usual,  gathered  momentum.  The  last  forty- 
eight  hours  whizzed  by  like  an  eighteen-pounder 
shell. 

On  Wednesday  morning  Roy,  once  more 
equipped  in  mud-stained  khaki  and  bristling 
with  portable  property,  appeared  at  the  flat  for 
breakfast  at  nine  o'clock.  Marjorie  was  ready 
for  him.  Liss  joined  the  party  a  little  later.  For 
all  her  feather-head,  she  was  no  mean  tactician. 
Having  conscientiously  effaced  herself  through- 
out the  week,  instinct  now  ;told  her  that  her 
presence  at  the  parting  breakfast  would  be  a 
good  thing.  So  she  uprooted  herself  from  her 
beloved  bed,  and  entered  upon  the  task  of 
distracting  the  lovers  from  the  contemplation 
of  the  immediate  future. 


TOM  BIRNIE  231 

"I  thought  it  was  just  time,"  she  announced 
to  Roy,  "  to  bring  myself  to  your  notice  a  little. 
I  am  here,  you  know  1  I  have  been  here  most  of 
the  week,  only  I  don't  think  you  observed  me 
very  much." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  did,"  replied  Roy  gallantly.  "Who 
could  help  it  ? " 

"Well,  you  could  —  and  did!  I  don't  much 
like  being  in  the  same  room  with  people  who 
don't  know  I'm  there.  It's  not  safe.  You 
walked  straight  through  me  the  other  afternoon, 
when  you  called  to  collect  Marjorie.  And  the 
day  before  that,  when  I  opened  the  door  to  you, 
you  wiped  your  feet  on  me  !  I've  had  a  wonder- 
ful week!" 

With  such  blunt  shafts  of  wit  as  these  Miss 
Lyle  ultimately  provoked  the  lovers  to  a  smile. 

"  That's  better  ! "  she  said.  "  Now,  next  time 
you  come  home  on  leave,  give  us  longer  notice, 
and  I  will  warn  Leonard,  or  somebody,  for  duty. 
Then  I  shan't  feel  such  an  outsider." 

Roy  promised  to  do  so. 

"  You  will  take  care  of  Marjorie,  won't  you  ? " 
he  added. 

Miss  Lyle  favoured  him  with  a  gaze  of  wither- 
ing wonder. 

"You  have  been  trying  to  take  care  of  her 


232  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

yourself  most  of  this  week,  haven't  you  ? "  she 
demanded. 

"  I  have  been  doing  my  best,"  admitted  Roy, 
cautiously. 

"  Very  well,  then  !  What  happened  ?  How 
did  it  end?" 

"  It  ended,  I  think,"  confessed  Roy,  "  in  her 
taking  care  of  me  ! " 

Liss  nodded  her  bobbed  head  triumphantly. 
"That's  it,"  she  said.  "That's  what  always 
happens  to  people  who  try  to  take  care  of  Marjie. 
She  grabs  them  by  the  neck,  puts  them  in  her 
pocket,  and  keeps  them  there  !  That's  what 
she'll  do  to  me  again,  when  you're  gone.  It's  no 
good  my  pretending  I  ever  do  anything  for  her." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  Marjorie. 

"  But  I'll  tell  you  what,"  continued  Liss:  "  I'll 
see  she  doesn't  take  care  of  anybody  else  while 
you're  away  —  if  I  can.  That's  her  trouble: 
she'd  take  care  of  the  whole  army,  and  navy,  and 
munition  people,  and  Red  Cross,  and  everything, 
if  she  was  let !  But  I'll  watch  her,  and  save  the 
leavings  for  you  ! "  She  glanced  at  the  clock, 
and  rose.  "Now,  children,  your  Auntie  Liss  is 
going  to  leave  you  !  Tactful — that's  me  !  When 
is  your  train,  General  ? " 

"  Two  o'clock,"  said  Roy.  "  I  fancy  we  sail 
from  Folkestone  about  six." 


TOM  BIRNIE  233 

"Then,"  inquired  Liss,  playing  a  carefully 
hoarded  ace  of  trumps,  "why  not  go  down  to 
Folkestone  now,  both  of  you,  by  the  morning 
train  ?  That  way  you  would  have  her  until 
nearly  six,  instead  of  two.  It's  all  right ;  don't 
thank  me  ! "  she  concluded  pathetically,  as  Mar- 
jorie,  without  a  word,  dived  into  the  bedroom  for 
her  hat,  and  Roy  began  to  struggle  madly  into 
his  equipment. 

ill 

THEY  spent  the  bleak  November  afternoon  on 
the  Leas  at  Folkestone.  At  their  feet  lay  the 
Straits  of  Dover,  across  whose  waters  British 
soldiers  had  come  and  gone  for  twenty-six  months, 
and  continued  to  come  and  go  for  twenty-five 
more,  without  the  loss  of  a  single  soldier's  life. 
But  they  could  not  see  their  feet  that  afternoon  : 
their  heads  were  in  the  clouds  —  private  clouds, 
to  which  we  will  not  presume  to  follow  them. 

As  the  autumn  darkness  fell,  they  took  an 
early  dinner  in  an  almost  empty  hotel  hard  by 
the  harbour,  talking  cheerfully  of  things  that  did 
not  matter.  Roy  ordered  champagne,  and  they 
drank  a  silent  toast  with  a  fleeting  glance  over 
the  rims  of  their  glasses. 

"  When  does  my  train  start  ? "  asked  Marjorie 


234  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

at  length.  "Don't  forget  that  I  have  to  be  back 
for  the  evening  performance." 

Roy  would  inquire. 

"Half -past  five,  from  the  Town  station,"  he 
announced  on  returning.  "That's  some  way 
from  here.  I  have  ordered  a  car,  and  if  we  start 
now  I  can  go  with  you  and  see  you  off.  That 
will  give  me  just  time  to  hop  into  the  official 
leave-train  coming  down  from  London.  It  stops 
at  Folkestone  Town  to  turn  round,  and  then 
backs  right  down  to  the  boat." 

Once  more  the  parting  was  staved  off.  How- 
ever, one  cannot  go  on  pilfering  minutes  eternally. 
This  time  it  really  was  good-bye.  It  was  half- 
past  five  ;  and  they  stood  on  the  Town  station 
platform. 

"  This  is  your  train,"  said  Roy,  "standing  here. 
Mine  is  due  at  the  other  platform  now.  There 
goes  the  signal  1  I  must  skip  across  the  bridge. 
So—" 

He  drew  Marjorie  behind  a  friendly  pile  of 
luggage. 

"It  has  been  wonderful,  Roy  dear  —  wonder- 
ful 1 "  For  a  moment  she  laid  her  head  on  Roy's 
breast.  "But  we  did  one  stupid  thing." 

"What  was  that?" 

"We  ought  to  have  got  married  ! " 


TOM  BIRNIE  235 

"I  never  thought  of  it,"  said  Roy  simply. 
"We  were  so  happy,  there  didn't  seem  to  be 
anything  else." 

"But  we'll  remember  next  time!"  said 
Marjorie. 

"  I  will  give  the  matter  my  personal  attention  I " 
Roy  assured  her.  "So-long,  and  take  care  of 
yourself  I " 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ALBERT  CLEGG 

IN  the  early  summer  of  Nineteen-Seventeen 
Uncle  Fred  paid  a  prolonged  visit  to  Netherby 
—  ostensibly  to  renew  family  ties,  in  reality  for 
reasons  not  altogether  unconnected  with  air-raids 
on  London. 

For  the  moment  the  fortunes  of  the  war  were 
back  in  the  melting  pot.  The  Battle  of  the 
Somme  had  bundled  Brother  Boche  right  back 
to  the  Siegfried  Line,  and  enemy  morale  on  the 
Western  Front  was  low.  The  British  army, 
fortified  by  twelve  months  of  conscription,  was 
blundering  forward  in  characteristic  fashion  upon 
many  fronts.  The  navy  had  swelled  to  a  size 
undreamed  of  by  any,  and  known  only  to  few. 
Over  the  British  coast  alone  nearly  three  thou- 
sand vessels  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  were 
keeping  watch.  The  "Q"  boat,  too,  with  its 
crazy  crew  of  immortals,  was  abroad  upon  the 
face  of  the  waters,  and  the  hunter  had  become 
the  hunted. 

But  there  was  much  to  be  set  down  upon  the 
contra  side.  The  spring  offensive  of  the  French 


ALBERT  CLEGG  237 

army,  after  a  brilliant  beginning,  had  faltered, 
then  halted.  There  had  been  recriminations, 
inquiries,  resignations  ;  and  Petain,  the  saviour 
of  Verdun,  had  succeeded  the  gallant  Nivelle. 
To  keep  the  enemy  from  benefiting  by  the  sudden 
relaxation  of  pressure  on  the  Chemin  des  Dames 
the  British  army  had  flung  itself  into  the  pre- 
mature Battle  of  Arras,  and  once  more  the 
casualty  lists  had  shot  up. 

At  home,  the  talk  was  mainly  of  Gothas — the 
Zeppelin  was  entirely  demode  —  and  ration 
cards.  The  war  was  costing  us  six  million  pounds 
a  day.  Income  tax  at  six  shillings  in  the  pound 
was  teaching  the  man  of  moderate  means  the 
meaning  of  war  ;  super-tax  and  excess  profits 
tax  were  subjecting  the  capitalistic  waistcoat  to 
a  not  unsalutary  reduction.  Labour  —  or  rather 
what  was  left,  now  that  all  that  was  best  and 
soundest  in  Labour  was  away  fighting — was 
going  on  strike  periodically  and  with  invariable 
success  for  more  adequate  recognition  of  its 
efforts  to  furnish  the  sinews  of  war  to  its  wasteful 
and  unproductive  brothers  in  the  trenches. 

In  Russia  the  Empire,  battered  from  without 
and  all  corroded  within,  had  collapsed  upon 
itself  ;  and  an  earnest  but  unpractical  gentleman 
named  Kerensky  was  rapidly  undermining  what 


238  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

was  left  of  Russian  staying-power,  and,  with  the 
enthusiastic  assistance  of  the  German  General 
Staff,  paving  the  way  for  those  great  twin  breth- 
ren, Lenin  and  Trotsky.  One  jaw  of  the  vice 
which  had  been  crushing  the  Hun  to  death  was 
relaxed  for  good. 

Still,  there  was  no  weakening  on  the  Western 
Front.  The  Messines  Ridge  had  recently  "  gone 
up,"  with  a  bang  which  had  warmed  the  heart  of 
every  schoolboy  in  that  schoolboy  army,  the 
British  Expeditionary  Force.  The  Salient  of 
Ypres,  that  graveyard  of  British  soldiers  and 
German  hopes,  stood  more  inviolate  than  ever. 
Bagdad  had  been  captured :  Palestine  was 
being  freed.  And  in  France,  down  in  the  Vosges, 
within  the  great  quadrilateral  formed  by  Chau- 
mont,  Toul,  Vittel,  and  Ligny-en-Barrois,  huge 
cantonments  were  being  run  up,  and  roads  and 
railways  laid  down,  by  long-legged,  slim-hipped, 
slow-speaking,  workmanlike  young  men  from  a 
vast  continent  overseas  —  the  forerunners  of  an 
army  of  indefinite  millions  which  had  pledged 
itself  to  come  and  redress  the  final  balance  at  no 
very  distant  date. 

But  all  this  did  not  prevent  London  from  being 
an  extremely  uncomfortable,  not  to  say  unsafe, 
place  of  residence  for  a  high  official  of  the  noble 


ALBERT  CLEGG  239 

army  of  Bomb-Dodgers.  Finally,  after  a  Gotha 
raid  over  London  in  broad  daylight  one  bright 
morning  in  July,  in  which  fifty-seven  people  were 
killed,  Uncle  Fred  decided  that  it  was  no  longer 
either  just  or  prudent  to  risk  a  valuable  life 
further,  and  went  to  Netherby,  where  he  suc- 
ceeded without  any  difficulty  whatever  in  out- 
staying his  welcome  by  a  considerable  margin. 
Netherby  itself  was  not  over-cheerful,  even 
though  the  master  of  the  house  was  absent  a  good 
deal.  Albert  Clegg  spent  most  of  his  time  in 
those  days  on  Tyneside,  making  himself  liable  to 
excess  profits  tax.  Amos,  his  eldest  son,  who 
from  early  boyhood  had  cultivated  the  valuable 
habit  of  keeping  one  ear  to  the  ground,  was  by 
this  time  in  Glasgow,  safely  embedded  in  a  con- 
venient stronghold  labelled  "  Civilian  War  Work 
of  National  Importance."  Brother  Joe  was  far 
away,  as  happy  as  a  sandboy  —  and  living  like 
one — assisting  General  Allenby  to  construct  a 
military  railway  from  Beersheba  to  Dan.  The 
younger  members  of  the  family  were  occupied  in 
making  unserviceable  articles  for  the  Red  Cross, 
and  complaining  of  the  shortage  of  sugar.  Mrs. 
Clegg  faithfully  attended  committee  meetings 
and  gatherings  where  bandages  were  rolled  and 
inside  information  imparted.  Craigfoot  lay  re- 


240  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

mote  from  the  tumult  of  war,  though  Edinburgh 
to  the  north,  and  Tynemouth  to  the  south,  had 
each  been  soundly  bombed.  Still,  there  was  no 
lack  of  military  atmosphere.  Colonel  Bethune 
himself — minus  an  arm,  and  with  a  bar  to  his 
D.S.O. — was  back  in  command  of  the  depot,  an 
object  of  respectful  worship  to  the  entire  commu- 
nity ;  and  was  always  ready  and  willing  to 
enlarge  upon  the  situation,  whether  to  an  atten- 
tive mess  or  to  a  casually  encountered  ploughman. 
His  august  mother,  Lady  Christina,  specialised 
upon  the  crimes  of  the  Government,  and  had  it 
on  reliable  authority  that  the  counsels  of  the 
Cabinet  were  now  entirely  directed  from  Pots- 
dam. Men  on  leave  came  and  went,  with  tales 
of  glory  and  gloom.  Many  of  the  girls  were  in 
London  or  in  France  ;  and  there  were  countless 
letters  to  quote.  Mrs.  Clegg  sat  and  listened  to 
the  babble  of  rumour  and  conjecture,  shyly  con- 
tributing here  and  there  an  excerpt  from  Pales- 
tine. Joe  had  never  been  home  since  his  clandes- 
tine enlistment,  but  as  the  event  had  proved  that 
conscription  would  have  claimed  him  in  any  case, 
his  father  had  decided  to  forgive  him. 

Marjorie's  name  was  never  mentioned  at 
Netherby,  by  decree  of  the  master  of  the  house. 
With  Mrs.  Clegg — gentle,  submissive,  colour- 


ALBERT  CLEGG  241 

less — to  yield  in  act  was  to  yield  in  opinion.  She 
possessed  the  faculty  (recently  enjoined,  with 
indifferent  success,  upon  an  entire  nation)  of 
being  "neutral  even  in  thought."  She  accepted 
Marjorie's  excommunication  as  she  would  have 
accepted  her  death,  or  any  other  form  of  irrevo- 
cability. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  Uncle  Fred's  hegira.  On 
the  morrow  he  was  to  return,  to  face  the  dangers 
of  Dulwich.  E>vening  prayers  had  been  con- 
cluded, and  Albert  Clegg  was  setting  the  markers 
in  the  Bible  for  to-morrow  morning's  exercises. 
Suddenly  he  looked  up,  and  spoke  : 

"Fred!" 

"Yes,  Albert?" 

"When  you  return  to  London  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  you  if  you  will  make  inquiries  about 
my  daughter." 

Uncle  Fred  sat  up — his  back  perfectly 
straight  for  the  first  time  for  many  years.  Mrs. 
Clegg's  knitting  dropped  from  her  fingers.  No 
one  else  was  present.  Only  children  remained 
at  Netherby,  and  they  had  gone  to  bed. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  matters  over,"  an- 
nounced Albert,  in  measured  tones.  "I  try  to 
be  a  just  man  in  all  my  dealings.  It  is  one  year 
to-day  since  the  news  came  to  me  that  my  daugh- 


242  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

ter  had  taken  to  —  her  present  ways.  By  this 
time  her  punishment  has  possibly  begun.  It  is 
not  my  intention  to  intervene  between  her  and 
her  Maker  ;  but  I  have  decided  that  there  can 
be  no  harm  in  taking  steps  to  ascertain  what  has 
become  of  her." 

Mrs.  Clegg  caught  her  breath.  Uncle  Fred, 
utterly  dazed,  wagged  his  beard  weakly. 

"That's  very  handsome  of  you,  Albert,"  he 
said  respectfully. 

"  Handsomeness  has  nothing  to  do  with  it  1 " 
snapped  Albert,  among  whose  rare  and  austere 
amusements  none  was  more  prized  than  that  of 
keeping  his  younger  brother  in  his  place.  "  I  am 
simply  doing  what  I  consider  to  be  right  and 
just.  Now,  when  you  return  to  London  I  want 
you  to  institute  inquiries  as  to  where  my  daughter 
is  to  be  found.  If  you  are  successful,  I  wish  you 
to  visit  her.  I  should  not  like  to  think  that  she 
was  actually  destitute.  Of  course,  she  can  never 
return  here,  but  I  can  see  that  she  is  provided 
for." 

There  was  silence.  Then  Uncle  Fred  inquired, 
after  the  fashion  of  all  feeble  folk  : 

"  How  should  I  set  about  finding  her  ?  Lon- 
don is  a  big  place.  I  suppose  the  police  —  " 

"I  will  not  have  the  police  brought  into  the 


ALBERT  CLEGG  243 

matter  until  absolutely  necessary,"  thundered 
Albert.  "  You  must  search  the  theatres  ! " 

It  was  a  magnificent  suggestion,  but  too  daring 
for  Albert's  audience  —  certainly  for  Uncle 
Fred. 

"  I  have  never  been  inside  a  theatre  in  my  life," 
he  objected. 

"  Neither  have  I.  But  you  need  not  go  inside. 
Enquire  at  the  door  whether  my  daughter  is 
employed  there.  Demand  to  see  the  manager  ! " 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  tell  me  ? " 

"  Threaten  him  with  the  law  if  he  won't. 
These  fellows  are  usually  under  police  observa- 
tion, in  any  case.  They  won't  dare  to  fight." 

"Perhaps  a  word  with  the  stage-door 
keeper  —  "  suggested  Mrs.  Clegg  timidly. 

"  There's  no  need  for  Fred  to  get  mixed  up 
with  the  dissolute  crowd  that  hangs  round  stage- 
doors,"  was  the  stern  reply.  "  He'll  go  in  by  the 
front!" 

Uncle  Fred,  flattered  on  the  whole  at  being 
still  regarded  as  a  potential  profligate,  hastened 
to  associate  himself  with  this  sentiment.  But  at 
heart  he  felt  a  little  ashamed.  There  were  ele- 
ments of  the  dare-devil  about  Uncle  Fred.  Still, 
he  reflected,  he  could  take  his  own  line  of  action 
when  he  got  back  to  London.  He  propounded 
another  conundrum. 


244  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"Supposing  she  isn't  in  one  of  the  theatres  — 
what  then  ?  Would  it  be  any  good  trying  the 
churches  ?  She  may  be  attending  some  place  of 
worship  regularly." 

"  If  she  is,  it  is  bound  to  be  Church  of  Eng- 
land ;  and  I  don't  intend  to  be  beholden  to  that 
body  for  any  help ! "  replied  Albert  firmly.  "You 
might  try  the  Salvation  Army.  Their  rescue 
work  brings  them  in  contact  with  every  walk  of 
life — the  West  End  restaurants  and  clubs,  and 
haunts  of  that  kind." 

The  implied  spectacle  of  Uncle  Fred,  assisted 
by  a  contingent  of  Hallelujah  Lasses,  raiding 
the  Athenaeum  or  The  Popular  Cafe,  for  a  lost 
niece  was  not  without  its  humour  ;  but  the  paths 
of  humour  and  righteousness  converge  too  sel- 
dom, to  their  mutual  detriment. 

"  When  you  find  her,"  concluded  Albert,  "  as- 
certain quietly  what  her  circumstances  are,  and 
report  to  me.  I  will  then  decide  what  it  is  best 
for  me  to  do." 

Uncle  Fred,  duly  uplifted,  wagged  his  head 
with  increased  solemnity. 

"I  must  say,  Albert,"  he  announced,  "even 
though  it  angers  you,  that  you  are  acting  in  a 
very  generous  manner." 

"Yes,  father,"  added  Mrs.  Clegg  wistfully. 


ALBERT  CLEGG  245 

In  a  watery  way,  her  heart  yearned  over  her 
daughter. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind  ! "  said  Clegg.  "  I  am 
merely  acting  as  my  conscience  directs  me.  These 
are  demoralising  times  for  the  best  of  us  " — per- 
haps Albert's  excess  profits  were  pricking  him — 
"and  we  must  make  certain  allowances.  Of 
course,  having  acted  the  way  she  has,  after  her 
Christian  upbringing,  she  can  never  expect  for- 
giveness. But — well,  I  shall  wait  until  I  hear 
from  you,  Fred." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TWO    SPAHBOWS 
I 

MAKJOKIE  was  one  of  those  who  were  "  able  to 
proceed  to  their  own  homes  after  receiving  sur- 
gical aid."  Others  were  not  so  fortunate.  The 
Mouldy  Old  Copper  —  badly  wounded  by 
splinters  of  glass,  and  excoriating  the  entire 
Teutonic  race  with  a  failing  tongue  but  unabated 
spirit — was  borne  off  to  St.  Thomas's  Hospital, 
followed  by  others.  The  canteen  had  been  mod- 
erately full  at  the  time,  and  more  than  one 
soldier  home  on  leave  had  had  his  leave  indefi- 
nitely prolonged  by  the  visitation.  Providentially, 
no  one  was  killed  ;  the  bomb  had  fallen  just  too 
far  down  the  street. 

The  raid  took  place  on  a  Sunday  evening, 
during  Marjorie's  one  period  of  night  duty  in  the 
week.  (In  this  way,  she  gave  herself  one  clear 
weekday  for  fresh  air  and  exercise. )  They  kept 
her  at  the  hospital  until  she  had  breakfasted, 
then  dispatched  her  homeward,  with  instructions 
to  return  daily  as  an  out-patient  until  further 
notice. 


TWO  SPARROWS  247 

She  walked  across  Westminster  Bridge  in  the 
morning  sunshine,  feeling  badly  shaken,  but  not 
a  little  proud.  Few  of  us  ever  outgrow  a  childish 
thrill  at  finding  our  arm  in  a  sling.  Not  only  was 
Marjorie's  arm  in  a  sling,  but  her  right  shoulder 
was  bandaged.  ("Just  missed  your  carotid 
artery,  my  dear,"  had  been  the  comment  of  the 
elderly  house  surgeon.)  She  felt  gloriously 
conspicuous.  A  'bus-load  of  convalescent  soldiers 
in  hospital  blue  recognised  her  as  one  of  the  elect, 
and  inquired  affectionately  whether  she  had  been 
out  in  a  trench  raid.  She  waved  her  sound  arm 
in  cordial  acknowledgment  of  the  pleasantry. 
Roy  would  be  interested  to  hear  about  this.  On 
second  thoughts,  no.  Roy  never  told  her  when 
he  had  had  an  escape  ;  she  must  maintain  Roy's 
standard  of  reticence. 

She  walked  jauntily  into  the  flat,  and  sat 
down,  a  little  suddenly,  upon  the  feet  of  Miss 
Elizabeth  Lyle,  who,  as  already  noted,  was 
usually  insensible  until  about  eleven  a.m.  Liss 
rolled  over  with  a  resigned  sigh,  poked  her  nez 
retrousse  out  from  under  the  sheet,  and  remarked 
meekly : 

"All  right !  Give  me  just  five  minutes  more, 
and  I  promise  —  My  goodness  gracious,  Marjie, 
what  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself  ? " 


248  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Marjorie  described  the  raid.  She  told  the  tale 
as  lightly  as  she  could,  with  humorous  touches 
here  and  there  ;  for  she  had  seen  human  blood 
flow  freely,  and  was  feverishly  conscious  of  a 
desire  to  get  the  picture  out  of  her  mind. 
Gradually  the  narrative  became  more  frivolous, 
the  touches  more  and  more  humorous.  Finally, 
the  narratress  grew  so  amused  with  the  recollec- 
tion of  her  own  experiences  that  she  threw  her 
head  back  and  laughed  loud  and  long. 

Liss  slipped  hurriedly  out  of  bed,  put  both 
arms  round  her  uproarious  friend,  and  laid  her 
by  main  force  in  the  place  which  she  had  just 
vacated. 

"You  stay  there,  dearie,"  she  said.  "They 
ought  never  to  have  let  you  out." 

"The  hospital  was  so  full!"  Marjorie  was 
shivering  all  over  now,  and  battling  with  an  in- 
clination to  tears.  "  They  said  that  they  were 
very  sorry  —  very  sorry — very  sorry  indeed  — 
but—" 

"  That's  all  right ! "  said  little  Liss  soothingly, 
covering  her  up,  and  patting  her  undamaged 
arm.  "  I'll  make  you  a  good,  strong  cup  of  tea, 
and  then  you  will  have  a  nice  sleep,  and  you'll 
wake  up  as  right  as  ninepence  !  I'll  slip  round 
to  the  theatre  and  tell  them  they  needn't  expect 


TWO  SPARROWS  249 

to  see  you  again  for  a  week  or  two.  The  show  is 
going  to  close  soon,  anyhow." 

"  I  don't  care  if  it  does  ! "  murmured  Mar- 
j orie,  her  head  on  Liss's  pillow.  She  did  not  even 
trouble  to  cross  the  room  to  her  own  bed.  "  I 
have  learnt  one  thing  in  the  last  year,  and  that  is 
that  I  am  not  cut  out  for  the  stage.  It  bores  me. 
I  was  meant  to  stay  at  home,  and  look  after  little 
people  like  you  —  and  Roy  !  That's  what  I  —  " 

She  settled  down  like  a  tired  child,  and  fell 
sound  asleep.  Liss  snatched  some  apparel  from 
a  chair,  padded  out  of  the  room  in  her  bare  feet, 
and  closed  a  door  gently  for  about  the  first  time 
in  her  life. 

ii 

MAEJORIE  woke  up  in  the  afternoon  —  herself 
again,  but  stiff  and  bruised.  She  rose,  and 
entered  the  sitting-room.  Liss  was  lying  on  the 
sofa,  reading  the  Daily  Mirror  and  smoking  a 
cigarette.  She  sprang  up  on  seeing  Mar j orie, 
and  flew  to  her,  stopping  just  in  time. 

"  Sorry,  duckie  ! "  she  said.  "  I  must  remem- 
ber that  arm  of  yours.  Are  you  feeling  all  right 
again  ? " 

"Splendid!"  said  Mar  j  orie.  "What  time  is 
it?" 


250  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"About  four." 

"  Let  us  have  some  tea  then,  and  I'll  go  round 
to  the  hospital  and  get  my  arm  dressed  again. 
Hallo,  it's  raining  ! " 

"  Yes  ;  it  has  been  pouring  ever  since  eleven 
o'clock  this  morning,"  said  Liss  ;  and  coughed. 

Marjorie  turned  upon  her  sharply.  Liss  was 
one  of  those  persons  to  whom  coughing  is  a  for- 
bidden luxury. 

"Liss,"  she  cried,  "you're  soaking!  Every 
rag  you  have  on  is  sticking  to  you  1  What's  the 
matter  ? "  She  began  to  fumble  at  the  back  of 
the  child's  blouse.  "  Here,  undress  yourself  !  I 
have  only  one  hand." 

"  I  got  a  bit  wet  when  I  went  out  to  the  the- 
atre," said  Liss  airily. 

"But  why  on  earth  didn't  you  — "  Marjorie 
glanced  towards  the  bedroom  door,  and  stopped 
abruptly.  She  understood.  "I  see,"  she  said, 
"you  didn't  want —  ?  Was  that  it  ?  How  long 
have  you  been  like  this  ? " 

"  Oh,  not  long,"  Liss  assured  her ;  and 
coughed  again. 

in 

MARJOEIE,  returning  from  her  alternative  role 
of  out-patient  to  resume  that  of  head  nurse, 


TWO  SPARROWS  251 

walked  into  the  flat,  and  sat  down  heavily  on 
Liss. 

"How  are  you  feeling  this  morning,  Baby  ? " 
she  inquired. 

"Top-hole!"  replied  the  invalid. 

Three  weeks  had  passed.  Liss  was  now  con- 
valescent ;  but  congestion  of  the  lungs  is  not  a 
malady  to  be  taken  lightly,  especially  by  little 
wraiths  with  weak  chests.  Marjorie  herself  had 
nearly  shaken  off  the  shock-effect  of  the  raid. 
Her  arm  was  still  lightly  bandaged. 

"  It's  a  lovely  day,"  she  said.  "  I  will  take 
you  for  a  bus  ride  this  afternoon,  if  you're  good. 
Meanwhile,  I  want  to  have  a  pow-wow  with 
you."  Marjorie  had  picked  up  this  expression 
from  Roy,  and  was  rather  proud  of  it. 

"What  about?" 

"Well — have  you  any  money  ?" 

"  I  thought  there'd  be  a  catch  about  it,"  said 
Liss,  reaching  out  to  the  little  table  beside  her 
bed  for  the  bag  in  which  the  young  woman  of 
to-day  is  reputed  to  keep  everything  but  the 
kitchen  stove.  "  Let  me  see  ! "  she  said.  She 
laid  out  on  the  counterpane  a  cigarette-case 
bearing  a  regimental  crest,  a  match-case  bearing 
another,  entirely  different,  a  long  cigarette- 
holder,  a  powder-puff  box,  a  lip-stick,  and  a  dim- 


252  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

inutive  handkerchief.  "  Now  we're  getting  down 
to  business ! "  she  announced  encouragingly. 
"Here's  a  shilling — a  threepenny  bit  —  and 
four  pennies.  Wait  a  minute !  Here's  a 
crumpled  up  thing  here  that  might  be  a  Brad- 
bury. No,  it's  a  note  from  Reggie.  I  suppose  I 
oughtn't  to  keep  that  now  I " 

Liss  tore  up  the  billet-doux  with  a  sentimental 
sigh.  It  may  be  noted  in  passing  that  her  en- 
gagement to  Master  Leonard  had  terminated 
some  months  previously  by  mutual  and  violent 
consent.  A  subsequent  contract  of  eternal 
fidelity  to  a  young  gentleman  in  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps  —  one  Reginald  Bensham  —  had 
recently  been  dissolved,  by  unanimous  vote.  At 
present  Miss  Lyle's  affections  were  disengaged. 

"  One  and  sevenpence ! "  she  announced. 
"  You  can  search  me  for  more  ! " 

"  That's  rather  a  blow,"  said  Marjorie. 

"Are  we  running  short  ? "  asked  Liss.  "Of 
course  we  must  be,  both  having  been  out  of  a 
job  for  three  weeks.  But  I  thought  —  " 

"  So  did  I,"  replied  Marjorie.  "  I  thought  we 
had  a  nest-egg  in  the  bank  at  my  home  in  Scot- 
land. I  haven't  touched  it  for  a  year,  because  I 
wanted  it  to  accumulate  for  a  rainy  day.  On 
Monday  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  our  present 


TWO  SPARROWS  253 

days  were  rainy  enough  —  there's  the  doctor's 
bill,  for  one  thing — so  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Gillespie, 
the  manager,  and  asked  what  my  balance  was. 
I  got  his  answer  this  morning." 

"I  hate  to  ask —  but  what  is  the  balance  ?" 

Marjorie  smiled  dismally. 

"  That's  just  it  I  There  isn't  any  balance  at 
all !  Just  a  few  odd  shillings.  My  father  seems 
to  have  cut  off  my  allowance  about  a  year  ago. 
I  wonder  why  ?  At  least,  if  he  was  going  to  do 
it  at  all  I  wonder  why  he  didn't  do  it  in  the  very 
beginning.  However,  we  won't  worry  about 
that.  The  situation  is,  that  you  have  one  and 
sevenpence,  and  I  have  about  two  pounds  ten." 

"  Two  pounds  ten,  and  one  and  sevenpence  — 
that's  about  two  pounds  fifteen,"  announced 
Liss,  after  a  brief  calculation.  "  We  can  live  for 
weeks  on  that.  Before  it's  gone  we  shall  be  back 
in  a  job  again." 

"  I  shan't  let  you  take  a  job  again  for  a  long 
time,  my  dear,"  said  Marjorie.  "They  won't 
have  much  use  for  me,  either  ;  I  can't  lift  my 
arm  above  my  shoulder  at  present.  How  could 
I  hold  up  the  Torch  of  Liberty  in  the  last  act  ? " 

"We'll  rub  along,"  announced  the  small  op- 
timist in  the  bed.  "If  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  I  could  always  get  engaged  again.  There's 
a  perfectly  sweet  boy  in  the  Tanks  —  " 


254  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

But  Marjorie's  hand  was  over  Liss's  mouth. 
"Baby,  remember  you  don't  get  engaged  again 
without  my  permission  ! " 

"  All  right ! "  mumbled  Liss.  "  Have  it  your 
own  way  !  But  what  about  your  Roy  ?  Can't 
you  raise  a  small  subscription  out  of  him  ?  That 
would  be  quite  O.K.,  wouldn't  it  ?  You're  going 
to  marry  —  "  Suddenly  Liss  sat  up  in  bed,  for 
she  had  caught  sight  of  Marjorie's  face.  "  Why, 
what's  the  matter,  dear  ? "  she  asked. 

"I  haven't  heard  a  word  from  him  for  five 
weeks,"  said  Marjorie  in  a  low  voice.  "  I'm  most 
awfully  unhappy,  Liss." 

Liss  forgot  all  about  herself  at  once,  and  put 
both  arms  round  her  protector. 

"Think  what  a  lot  of  letters  must  be  lying 
waiting  for  you  somewhere,"  she  said.  "You'll 
get  a  whole  bunch  one  morning.  Now  I'm  going 
to  get  up,  and  we'll  go  on  that  bus  ride." 

They  lunched  frugally  at  an  A.B.C.  shop,  and 
having  boarded  a  Number  Nine  bus  sped  west- 
ward along  Piccadilly.  A  communicative  man 
with  a  broken  nose,  wearing  the  silver  badge  of  a 
discharged  soldier,  leaned  over  their  shoulders 
from  the  seat  behind  them. 

"  Sir  Dougliss  'as  done  it  again,  ladies  ! "  he 
announced  importantly,  thrusting  an  evening 


TWO  SPARROWS  255 

paper  before  them.  "  Look  !  Fifteen-mile  front 
—  twelve  villages — five  thousand  prisoners! 
That's  the  stuff  to  give  'em  ! " 

The  girls  read  the  report  eagerly.  It  described 
the  opening  British  attack  of  the  Third  Battle  of 
Ypres.  (In  the  first  two,  the  attack  had  come 
from  the  other  side.)  Woods  and  villages,  long 
familiar  in  daily  bulletins  as  German  strong- 
holds, were  at  last  in  British  hands  —  Hollebeke, 
Sanctuary  Wood,  Saint  Julien,  Hooge  —  and 
the  advance  was  still  continuing.  Marjorie's 
heart  quickened  —  then  faltered.  Great  victories 
mean  big  casualties  —  and  she  did  not  even  know 
where  Roy  was.  When  last  heard  of  she  had 
gathered  that  he  was  in  a  rest-area  somewhere 
behind  Amiens.  But  that  had  been  five  weeks 
ago. 

"  Do  you  know  that  district  ? "  Liss  was 
asking. 

"  Know  it  ?  I  should  think  I  did,  miss  —  like 
the  back  of  me  'and  !  I  copped  a  sweet  one  there 
in  'fifteen  —  near  Cambray." 

"  But  Cambrai  is  not  in  the  Salient,"  observed 
Marjorie. 

The  communicative  man  conceded  the  point 
immediately. 

"  Neither  it  is,  miss — not  in  that  Salient.    My 


256  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

error  !  They  rushed  us  up  and  down  that  West- 
ern Front  so  fast,  no  wonder  a  feller  gets  mixed  1 
I  was  hit  in  both  places,  though.  Well,  'ere  we 
are  in  good  old  'Ammersmiff.  This  is  where  I 
'ops  off.  Good-day,  ladies  !  Keep  the  paper, 
and  welcome." 

"  It's  big  news,  isn't  it  ? "  said  Liss,  continuing 
to  skim  through  the  heavily  leaded  paragraph. 

"  I  wonder  why  that  man  thought  Cambrai 
was  in  the  Salient,"  remarked  Marjorie. 

"  Swank,  I  expect,"  said  Liss.  "  Probably  he 
hasn't  been  out  at  all — or  wounded  I " 

"  But  he  was  wearing  a  silver  badge,"  objected 
Marjorie,  to  whom  all  military  geese  were  swans. 

"  Perhaps  he  pinched  it,"  suggested  Miss  Lyle, 
who  harboured  few  illusions  concerning  the  male 
sex. 

Her  theory  received  entire  corroboration  a 
moment  later.  On  folding  up  the  newspaper 
before  descending  they  discovered  that  Mar- 
jorie's  vanity-bag,  which  was  lying  on  the  seat 
between  them,  had  been  neatly  slit  open  and  its 
entire  contents  extracted. 

The  pair  turned  and  regarded  one  another 
silently.  Liss  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  That  brings  us  down  to  one  and  sevenpence," 
she  remarked.  "No  wonder  he  didn't  know 
where  Cambrai  was  ! " 


TWO  SPARROWS  257 

IV, 

"LUNCHEON  is  served,"  announced  Liss. 

"  What  is  there  ? "  asked  Mar  j  one. 

"  The  same  as  breakfast,  with  Willie  and  John 
thrown  in.  Also  the  rest  of  the  day  before  yester- 
day's loaf.  Pull  up  your  chair,  dear." 

As  breakfast  had  consisted  of  nothing  at  all, 
the  prodigality  of  this  menu  can  be  readily 
gauged.  Willie  and  John,  by  the  way,  were  the 
last  two  sardines  in  the  tin. 

"  You  take  Willie,"  said  Liss.  "  Here's  your 
half  of  the  bread.  Oh  my,  but  I'm  hungry ! 
Good-bye,  John  dear  1  Marjorie,  what  are  we 
going  to  do  next  ? " 

Marjorie  bent  her  brows  judicially. 

"Let  me  see,"  she  said.  "I've  tried  the  theatre, 
and  they  don't  begin  rehearsing  the  new  piece  for 
a  fortnight.  It  was  no  use  trying  the  canteen, 
because  it  isn't  there  any  more  —  at  least,  nothing 
worth  considering.  And  as  it  happens,  I  don't 
know  anyone  else  in  any  other  canteen." 

"We  haven't  got  an  account  at  any  shop," 
continued  Liss,  "because  we've  always  been  to 
the  cheap  cash  places.  I  don't  know  a  living  soul 
in  London,  except  my  family  ;  and  if  I  go  back 
to  Finchley  I  know  I'll  jolly  well  have  to  stay 
there  for  the  duration." 


258          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"And  I,"  supplemented  Marjorie,  "know  no 
one  except  Uncle  Fred,  in  Dulwich.  And  I'd 
rather  die  than  ask  him  for  help  1 " 

"No  one  at  all  ?"  exclaimed  Liss.  "Do  you 
and  I  mean  to  sit  here  and  tell  each  other  that 
we  know  no  one  in  London,  except  the  people  at 
the  theatre,  and  the  people  at  your  canteen,  and 
one  or  two  dud  relations  ?  Why  not  call  on  your 
old  Lord  Eskerley?" 

Marjorie  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can,"  she  said.  "  I  have  no 
particular  claim —  " 

"  No  claim  ?  Didn't  you  drive  his  silly  old  car 
in  all  weathers  for  nearly  a  year  ?  Didn't  he  tell 
you  to  come  back  and  see  him  whenever  you  had 
time  ?  It's  no  use  being  modest  when  you're 
starving.  If  you  don't  go  and  see  him,  I  shall." 

"Then  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  dear,"  an- 
nounced Marjorie,  "that  I  have  been  already." 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  so  before  ? " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  disappoint  you." 

"  Why  ?    Were  you  chucked  out  ?  " 

"No.  He's  away  in  Paris,  on  an  indefinite 
mission.  The  butler  was  very  nice  about  it,  but 
he  had  no  information  as  to  when  his  lordship 
would  be  back.  I  hadn't  been  entirely  forgotten, 
though.  There  was  a  message  for  me.  It  had 
been  lying  there  for  weeks." 


TWO  SPARROWS  259 

"What  did  it  say?" 

"It  was  just  a  scribbled  note  in  an  envelope 
with  my  motor  licence,  which  I  had  left  behind 
in  the  garage."  Marjorie  crossed  the  room  to 
her  little  bureau.  "  Here  it  is  !  It  says  : 

My  dear  late  lamented  Habakkuk, — /  enclose  your 
licence,  which  you  have  inadvertently  left  on  my  prem- 
ises.   No  doubt  you  will  need  it  again  some  day. 
With  kind  regards, 
Yours  sincerely — 

There's  a  postscript,"  she  added  : 

Apropos  of  motor  licences,  let  me  offer  you  a  piece  of 
advice.  Always  keep  an  adequate  sum  —  say  a  pound 
or  so  —  folded  up  and  tucked  away  between  the  covers 
of  the  licence  itself.  This  expedient,  when  you  get  held 
up  in  a  police-trap,  and  the  minion  of  the  law  examines 
your  credentials,  may  obviate  a  public  appearance  be- 
fore the  local  Beaks.  Verb,  sap.!  Very  useful.  Don't 
say  I  told  you. 

Marjorie  laid  down  this  characteristic  effusion, 
and  laughed. 

"I  don't  think  we  are  likely  to  tie  up  any 
capital  in  that  way  at  present ! "  she  said,  finish- 
ing the  last  crumb  of  her  bread.  "  We  are  down 
to  f ourpence  now.  We  had  better  keep  that  for 
to-morrow,  and  go  without  supper  to-night.  No, 
we'll  spend  threepence  on  biscuits,  and  have  a 
biscuit  apiece  at  bed-time  1 " 


260  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  By  golly,  we  do  go  it,  don't  we ! "  Liss  looked 
round  the  room  hungrily.  "  Isn't  there  anything 
left  that  we  can  pop  ? " 

"  Nothing,  I'm  afraid.  My  jewellery  is  all  at 
Netherby.  I  have  my  engagement-ring,  of 
course  —  " 

"  That  stays  ! "  announced  Liss  firmly.  "  It 
was  lucky,"  she  went  on  with  more  cheerfulness, 
"  that  my  little  Leonard  did  not  want  his  back  ! 
Not  that  we  got  much  for  it ;  I  always  said  he 
bought  it  at  a  stationer's  I  Now,  if  it  had  only 
been  the  one  Reggie  gave  me,  that  would  have 
been  a  different  story  ;  his  was  a  beauty.  But 
the  little  beast  practically  grabbed  it  back  from 
me.  Marjie,  I  really  think  I'd  better  get  engaged 
again.  I  could  wire  Toby,  at  —  " 

"  You  will  do  no  such  thing  1 "  said  Marjorie. 
"Besides,  you  can't  send  a  wire  for  fourpence." 

"  I  suppose,"  continued  Liss  (whose  motto  in 
life  was  "Anything  Once  1 ")  "it  wouldn't  do  to 
go  and  sit  about  in  a  restaurant  somewhere,  and 
get  taken  out  to  dinner  by  an  Australian,  or 
somebody  ?  All  right,  I  was  only  joking  I  Well, 
we  must  just  hang  on  till  Saturday  ;  then  there 
will  be  lots  of  our  nice  boy  friends  in  town  for  the 
week-end,  and  we  can  make  up  for  lost  time. 
Meanwhile,  let's  go  round  and  see  if  we  can't  get 


TWO  SPARROWS  261 

a  job  directing  envelopes,  or  something.    Carry 
on,  partner ! " 


TOWARDS  evening  our  two  hungry  sparrows  for- 
gathered again,  footsore  and  faint,  but  still 
smiling.  Liss,  who  ought  by  rights  to  have  been 
in  bed  consuming  chicken-broth,  was  as  white  as 
wax. 

"  What  luck  ? "  she  enquired. 

"Nothing  doing!"  sighed  Marjorie.  "They 
will  take  me  on  at  an  office  in  Holborn  as  soon 
as  my  arm  is  well  enough  to  write,  but  they 
wouldn't  give  me  an  advance  of  pay.  They  just 
told  me  to  report  at  nine  o'clock  on  Monday." 

"And  to-day's  Thursday  !  Thank  them  for 
nothing ! " 

"Did  you  get  anything  ? "  asked  Marjorie. 

"  No  —  except  that  I  went  round  to  the  theatre 
again,  and  they  are  putting  on  the  new  show  a 
little  sooner.  There's  a  call  for  rehearsal  on 
Saturday.  That  doesn't  mean  any  salary  for  a 
long  while,  but  I  ought  to  be  able  to  borrow  a 
shilling  or  two  from  the  girls.  Not  that  it  will  be 
easy  :  they  all  need  the  money  themselves  these 
days,  poor  things  !  I'm  cold.  Let's  have  our 
biscuit  and  go  to  bed." 


262  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  I  wonder  what  time  it  is  ? "  said  Marjorie, 
getting  up  from  her  chair. 

"About  eight,  I  should  say."  (Watches  had 
been  hypothecated  long  since.)  "It's  a  bit 
early." 

"Qui  dort,  dine''  quoted  Marjorie. 

"What  does  that  mean  ?" 

"It's  what  Lord  Eskerley  used  to  say  when 
he'd  been  to  the  House  of  Lords.  Let's  go  to 
bed  ;  I'm  comfortably  tired.  London's  a  big 
place  to  get  about  in — when  one  hasn't  a  bus 
fare!" 

They  shared  Marjorie's  bed  that  night,  for 
misery  loves  company. 

"I  say,"  suggested  Liss  suddenly,  "couldn't 
we  go  round  and  get  a  meal  from  the  Red  Cross, 
or  somebody  ?  " 

Marjorie,  who  was  just  dropping  off  to  sleep, 
replied  with  great  firmness  : 

"The  Red  Cross  can  only  assist  people  who 
have  been  wounded  in  action.  If  they  go  beyond 
that,  the  Geneva  Convention  allows  them  to  be 
fired  on  ;  and  then  Roy  might  —  No,  we  cant 
ask  the  Red  Cross  —  unless  we  get  hit  in  another 
air-raid  ! "  she  added  hopefully. 

Having  no  more  suggestions  to  offer,  Liss 
dropped  off  to  sleep  in  her  favourite  attitude  — 


TWO  SPARROWS  263 

with  her  head  under  the  pillow.  Marjorie  lay 
awake  for  a  long  time,  pondering  many  things  in 
her  heart  —  speculating  mainly  as  to  whether  she 
could  last  out  until  Baby's  flock  of  plutocratic 
second  lieutenants  came  to  town  on  Saturday. 
She  decided  immediately  that  she  could,  adding 
a  mental  rider  condemning  persons  who,  like  her- 
self, worried  about  their  own  personal  comforts 
when  there  was  a  war  on.  She  also  wondered, 
again  and  again,  what  had  become  of  Roy.  She 
wondered  whether  he  were  hungry  too.  Pre- 
sumably not.  He  had  assured  her  that  the 
British  Army  on  the  Western  Front  were  grossly 
overfed — in  fact,  the  inevitability  with  which  the 
Army  Service  Corps  got  the  rations  up  and 
through  bordered  on  the  uncanny.  No,  she  need 
not  worry  about  Roy's  diet.  His  safety  was 
another  matter.  Five  weeks  !  She  dropped  into 
a  troubled  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  EXPLORER 

MEANWHILE,  in  a  crowded  street  just  off  the 
Strand,  in  the  fading  light  of  a  July  evening,  an 
elderly  gentleman  with  a  goat's  beard,  spectacles 
on  nose,  was  diligently  examining  the  framed 
photographs  exhibited  outside  a  very  popular 
theatre.  His  attention  was  particularly  directed 
to  a  large  chorus  group  —  an  ensemble  of  attrac- 
tive young  women  in  costumes  attuned  to  the 
economical  spirit  of  wartime. 

Aware  of  a  sudden  interference  with  the  not 
too  abundant  supply  of  light,  the  elderly  investi- 
gator turned  round,  a  little  guiltily,  to  find  that 
he  was  being  assisted  in  his  investigations  by 
three  hard-breathing  members  of  His  Majesty's 
Forces  —  an  English  Sapper,  a  Highlander,  and 
a  Canadian  of  enormous  bulk. 

"And  very  nice,  too  ! "  observed  the  Sapper. 
"But  Grandpa,  not  at  your  time  of  life,  you 
didn't  ought  to  —  reelly  !  'Op  it — there's  a  good 
boy!" 

"  Awa'  hame  ! "  added  the  Scot  severely  —  "  or 
I'll  tell  on  ye  tae  Grandmaw  ! " 


THE  EXPLORER  265 

Bitterly  ashamed  at  having  his  motives  thus 
misconstrued,  Uncle  Fred  hurried  away.  His 
course  now  took  him  westward  along  the  Strand, 
which  was  packed  from  end' to  end  with  seekers 
after  diversion — mostly  soldiers  and  their  ad- 
herents. He  plodded  steadily  through  the  press, 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  a  definite  goal 
before  him.  This  was  the  second  week  of  his 
search  for  Marjorie,  but  he  had  considerably 
modified  the  plan  of  action  laid  down  for  him  by 
his  elder  brother.  His  attempts  to  call  upon  the 
theatrical  managers  of  London,  seriatim,  for  the 
purpose  of  compelling  them  to  disgorge  his 
niece,  had  resulted  in  a  sequence  of  humiliating 
reverses  at  the  hands  of  stunted  but  precocious 
children  in  the  outer  office.  Uncle  Fred  had  now 
evolved  a  plan  of  his  own.  He  had  observed  that 
theatres  were  accustomed  to  stimulate  the  appe- 
tites of  their  patrons  by  displaying  samples  of 
their  wares  —  in  the  form  of  large  framed  photo- 
graphs—  outside  the  entrance  to  the  theatre. 
Good !  He  would  resolve  himself  into  an 
investigating  committee  of  one,  visit  each  theatre 
in  turn,  and  examine  photographs  until  he  had 
located  Marjorie.  After  that,  the  stronghold 
itself  must  be  penetrated.  A  somewhat  hazard- 
ous enterprise,  he  decided,  but  not  without  its 


256  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

romantic  side.  As  already  noted,  there  was  the 
making  of  a  man-about-town  in  Uncle  Fred. 

His  self-imposed  quest  had  been  in  progress 
for  several  evenings,  and,  .as  yet,  had  borne  no 
fruit.  Uncle  Fred  was  not  familiar  with  the 
life  of  the  West  End — his  knowledge  of  social 
life  in  London,  like  that  of  too  many  Members 
of  Parliament,  was  limited  to  the  tea-room  of  the 
House  of  Commons  —  and  he  had  wasted  a  good 
deal  of  time  hunting  for  photographs  outside 
establishments  where  chorus  girls  are  not  usually 
to  be  found  —  Maskelyne  and  Cook's,  for  in- 
stance, and  the  Polytechnic.  Also,  it  required 
expert  knowledge  to  distinguish  the  humble 
home  of  the  Drama  from  the  palace  of  the  Movie 
Queen.  But  he  was  learning  rapidly.  Assisted 
by  the  advertisements  in  the  daily  press  and  a 
District  Railway  map  of  London,  he  had  now 
charted  out  the  whole  of  theatre-land,  and  had  very 
nearly  completed  a  most  methodical  survey  there- 
of. He  knew  the  name  of  every  revue  and  musi- 
cal comedy  in  London,  and  could  have  given 
points,  in  his  familiarity  with  the  features  of  pro- 
fessional beauty,  to  the  average  Flying  Corps 
subaltern 

He  crossed  Trafalgar  Square,  and  headed  for 
fhe  Shaftesbury  Avenue  district.  A  hurried 


THE  EXPLORER  267 

reference  to  the  map,  in  a  quiet  corner  behind 
the  National  Gallery,  confirmed  him  in  his  bear- 
ings. Presently  he  found  himself  before  another 
theatre.  It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  ;  but,  thanks 
to  the  Summer  Time  Act,  it  was  still  daylight. 
The  name  of  the  current  attraction  of  the  house, 
as  stated  on  the  bill-boards  outside,  was  Too 
Many  Girls.  Diagonally  across  each  bill-board 
was  pasted  a  printed  slip  which  said,  a  little 
ambiguously,  "Last  Week." 

"  That's  a  pity,"  mused  Uncle  Fred.  "  But  I 
can  slip  inside  and  find  out  what  they  are  doing 
this  week  and  next.  There's  some  sort  of  enter- 
tainment going  on  :  I  can  hear  it." 

Thrusting  his  beard  well  forward,  Uncle  Fred 
marched  boldly  into  the  vestibule  of  the  theatre. 
The  framed  photographs  had  been  taken  in  for 
the  night,  and  were  ranged  round  the  wall  on 
easels.  Uncle  Fred  set  his  spectacles  in  position, 
and  began  his  usual  methodical  tour  of  inspection, 
at  his  regulation  range  of  six  inches. 

A  stout  lady,  confined  in  a  gilded  cage  in  one 
of  the  walls,  engaged  in  counting  change, 
suspended  operations  to  watch  him.  She  caught 
the  eye  of  the  commissionnaire  who  stood  at  the 
swing-door  leading  to  the  stalls,  and  coughed 
delicately.  Certainly  Uncle  Fred,  in  his  semi- 


268  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

ecclesiastical  frock-coat  and  Heath  Robinson  tall 
hat,  crouching  astride  his  umbrella  in  a  strained 
endeavour  to  scrutinise  the  very  lowest  row  in  a 
large  photographic  group  of  chorus  girls,  fairly 
invited  comment. 

"  Boys  will  be  boys  ! "  observed  the  commis- 
sionnaire,  to  no  one  in  particular  ;  and  the  siren 
in  the  cage  giggled. 

Suddenly  Uncle  Fred  came  to  a  dead  point 
opposite  the  very  last  photograph  in  the  last  row. 
Feverishly  reinforcing  his  spectacles  with  a  pair 
of  eye-glasses,  he  made  a  confirmatory  examina- 
tion, and  then  rose  to  an  upright  position — 
looking  as  Stanley  may  have  looked  when  he 
found  Livingstone.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he 
became  aware  that  he  was  not  alone. 

"  Naughty,  naughty  ! "  said  a  wheezy  feminine 
voice. 

"  Haw,  haw,  haw ! "  roared  ;the  commission- 
naire. 

"  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  little  brighteyes  ! "  de- 
clared the  accusing  angel  in  the  cage. 

"  Outside  ! "  added  the  commissionnaire,  re- 
called to  a  sense  of  duty  by  the  appearance  at  the 
swing-door  of  an  authoritative-looking  person  in 
a  dinner  jacket. 

Uncle  Fred,  shamefully  misunderstood  and 


THE  EXPLORER  269 

deeply  wounded,  hurried  out.  In  the  street  he 
hesitated. 

"  Those  people  might  have  given  me  some  use- 
ful information,"  he  reflected.  "But  I  won't 
go  back  now,  to  be  insulted  !  I  think,  after  all, 
it  would  be  best  to  see  the  caretaker  at  the  stage 
door.  I  suppose  that  will  be  somewhere  at  the 
back." 

A  voyage  of  circumnavigation  brought  him  to 
the  dingy  portal  which  early  training  and  settled 
conviction  had  always  represented  to  him  as  giv- 
ing direct  access  to  the  Infernal  Regions.  With 
a  guilty  thrill  he  crossed  the  threshold,  and  found 
himself  confronted  by  an  unshaven  man  slumber- 
ing in  a  glass  box.  Uncle  Fred  coughed  ner- 
vously. The  man  opened  his  eyes,  and  pushed 
open  a  glass  shutter. 

"Well? "he  enquired. 

"  I  want  to  ask  a  favour,"  began  Uncle  Fred. 
But  the  man  cut  him  short. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Temperance,  or  Christian 
Science  ?  You  can't  put  up  no  notices  on  our 
call-board.  Management  don't  allow  it." 

"I  have  reason  to  believe,"  pursued  Uncle 
Fred,  with  feeble  dignity,  "  that  a  young  woman 
is  employed  here  —  " 

"  We  employ  thirty-six  of  'em,"  said  the  stage- 
door  man. 


270  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  I  have  just  seen  her  likeness  —  in  a  group  — 
round  there"  —  explained  Uncle  Fred,  waving 
his  umbrella  vaguely  towards  the  front  of  the 
house. 

"  It  very  often  starts  that  way,"  remarked  the 
stage-door  man.  "  But  why  not  pay  for  a  seat, 
like  a  little  gentleman,  and  go  in  front  and  see  the 
gel?" 

"  She's  my  niece,"  explained  Uncle  Fred. 

'*  They  always  are,"  said  the  stage-door  man. 
"  Or  else  cousins  !  Good  night,  Tirpitz  !" 

He  shut  the  little  glass  shutter  in  the  investi- 
gator's face,  and  recomposed  his  features  to 
slumber.  But  Uncle  Fred,  though  not  a  dashing 
person,  possessed  some  elements  of  the  dogged 
persistence  of  the  Clegg  family.  He  rapped  on 
the  window-pane.  The  stage-door  man  opened 
it  again. 

"  Now,  you  run  away  ! "  he  said.  "  'Op  it ! 
Sling  yer  'ook,  or  I'll  set  the  cat  on  you  ! " 

"  Is  my  niece  here  to-night  ? "  asked  Uncle 
Fred,  employing  the  handle  of  his  umbrella  as  a 
lever  of  the  third  order.  "I  am  very  anxious 
to  have  a  few  words  with  her,  on  a  domestic 
matter.  I  see  a  notice  outside,  saying  that  the 
present  entertainment  concluded  last  week.  But 
it  has  occurred  to  me  that  it  is  still  possible  —  " 


THE  EXPLORER  271 

The  stage-door  man  slid  from  his  stool,  came 
out  of  his  den,  and  laid  a  heavy  hand,  not  un- 
kindly, on  the  orator's  shoulder. 

"What  you  want  to  do,  ole  friend,"  he  said, 
"  is  to  'ire  the  Albert  'All,  and  make  a  night  of 
it !  That'll  get  it  out  of  your  system  nicely. 
Good-bye  ! "  He  gently  impelled  his  guest  in  the 
direction  of  the  street. 

"I  want  my  niece's  address,"  gasped  Uncle 
Fred,  clinging  like  a  limpet  to  the  door-post. 

"  Go  along,  you  silly  old  sinner  ! "  said  the 
stage-door  man,  disengaging  him.  "  I'm  ashamed 
of  you." 

"  I  will  pay  you  ! "  said  Uncle  Fred  desperately. 

The  stage-door  man  relaxed  at  once. 

"Now  you're  talking!"  he  announced. 

Five  minutes  later,  after  a  sordid  commercial 
wrangle,  Uncle  Fred  emerged  from  the  stage 
door  with  a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand.  He  walked 
straight  into  the  arms  of  three  members  of  His 
Majesty's  Forces.  They  recognised  him,  and 
drew  back  in  affected  horror. 

"What,  again?"  cried  the  Canadian.  "My 
God,  he's  a  Mormon  !  Come  along,  boys  ! " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  GREAT  PRETEND 

"AND  the  sweet  ? "  enquired  Marjorie,  pencil 
poised. 

"  Meringues ! "  said  Liss  firmly. 

"Well,  I  would  say  chocolate  souffle  every 
time  —  with  whipped  cream,  of  course  !"  replied 
Marjorie.  "But  have  it  your  own  way.  Now 
for  the  savoury  ! " 

"  We  don't  want  a  savoury,"  said  Liss. 

"Remember,"  Marjorie  reminded  her,  "that 
there  will  be  gentlemen  present." 

"I  was  forgetting  the  gentlemen.  Well — 
what  ? " 

"My  gentleman  friend,"  said  Marjorie,  "is 
very  fond  of  angels-on-horseback." 

"All  right !  You  can  put  them  down  if  you 
like  ;  only  don't  ask  me  to  eat  them  :  I  expect 
I  shall  be  stodged  by  that  time,  anyhow.  Oh 
Marjie,  if  only  it  were  true  ! "  Liss  hugged  her 
hungry  little  self,  longingly. 

" There,  that's  the  complete  menu"  said  Mar- 
jorie. She  laid  down  her  pencil,  took  up  the 
writing  pad,  and  began  to  read  : 


THE  GREAT  PRETEND  273 

"Oysters!"  She  took  up  her  pencil  again. 
"  By  the  way,  we  can't  have  oysters." 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  can  only  have  oysters  when  there's  an 
II  in  the  month." 

"  Well,  it's  August ! "  said  Liss.  "And  as 
they  aren't  going  to  be  there  anyhow,  they  may 
as  well  stay  in  ! " 

"  No,"  said  Marjorie.  "  This  dinner  is  going 
to  be  things  we  would  order  here  and  now  —  just 
supposing  we  could.  So  don't  let  us  spoil  it  by 
putting  down  impossible  things." 

Liss  at  once  recognised  the  logical  consistency 
of  this  view. 

"All  right ! "  she  said.  "  No  oysters  !  Hors 
d'ceuvres,  instead.  Then  nice  hot  soup  ! " 

"  Yes  —  Potage  a  la  reine" 

"  It  sounds  a  bit  watery  ;  but  I  don't  mind,  so 
long  as  it's  hot.  Oh,  how  lovely  it  would  be  ! " 

"Sole  meuniere.    That's  Roy's  favourite." 

"  Oh  —  Roy's  to  be  there  ?  That's  your  pre- 
tend, is  it  ?  " 

Marjorie  nodded  over  her  hypothetical  menu. 

"  That's  a  good  idea.  Who  shall  I  pretend  my 
man  is?  Toby?" 

"All  right." 

"In  that  case,  we  shall  want  more  than  one 


274  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

bottle  of  champagne.  You  know  what  that  child 
is  1  But  never  mind  that  just  now  !  Read  out 
some  more  food." 

"Duckling  — J 

"And  green  peas,  of  course  ? " 

"Of  course!" 

"What  then?" 

"  That  brings  us  to  the  meringues/' 

"  Good !  That  should  be  enough.  We  will 
have  coffee  and  creme  de  menthe  afterwards,  of 
course  ? " 

"  We  will  have  cognac  as  well.  You  see,  Roy 
—  Oh,  Liss  !"  For  a  moment  Marjorie's  forti- 
tude forsook  her.  Her  face  sank  into  her 
friend's  fluffy  hair. 

"  Liss,  dear,"  she  murmured,  "if  only  I  knew!" 

"  It's  Friday  afternoon  now,"  said  Liss  cheer- 
fully. "We'll  get  lots  to  eat  to-morrow,  when 
the  boys  come  up  to  town." 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  food,"  said  Marjorie — 
"just  then!" 

"  Well,  I  was  !  Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  hungry  !  I 
didn't  know  it  was  possible  to  be  so  hungry. 
What  time  is  it  ? " 

"About  five,  I  think." 

"  Well,  let's  have  a  nice  drink  of  water,  and  eat 
a  couple  of  biscuits,  and  go  to  bed.  It's  the  best 
way." 


THE  GREAT  PRETEND  275 

"  Very  well,"  said  Marjorie  listlessly.  She  was 
the  more  exhausted  of  the  two  ;  for  Liss  was  of 
the  ethereal  type  that  seems  to  thrive  on  a  diet 
of  next-to-nothing.  Neither  girl  had  touched 
food,  except  a  few  biscuits,  since  the  previous 
evening.  This  afternoon  they  had  endeavoured 
to  maintain  morale  by  indulging  in  one  of  the 
oldest  pastimes  known  to  children  of  the  world 
—  the  game  of  "Let's  pretend!"  —  sturdily 
endeavouring  to  hold  a  fire  in  their  hands  by 
thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  tapping  on  the  outer 
door.  Both  girls  started  up. 

"Who  on  earth  can  that  be  ?"  said  Marjorie, 
hurrying  automatically  to  the  mirror  above  the 
mantelpiece. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  anybody  with  any  money  ! " 
remarked  Liss,  hastily  removing  herself  from  the 
couch,  where  she  had  been  stifling  the  pangs  of 
hunger  by  lying  on  her  front. 

"  Go  and  see  ! "  commanded  Marjorie,  busy  at 
the  mirror. 

Liss  went  out  into  the  little  vestibule,  and 
reappeared,  followed  by  a  visitor.  Her  face  was 
a  study. 

"  This  gentleman  wants  to  see  you,  dear,"  she 
said  solemnly.  "  I  will  leave  you  together  ! " 


276  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Marjorie  turned  hastily  round. 

"No  —  stay!"  she  commanded.  "How  do 
you  do,  Uncle  Fred  ? " 

"  I  am  very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Uncle  Fred 
in  a  low  voice.  Apprehension  was  written  upon 
his  features,  and  his  large,  weak  mouth  trembled. 
This  adventure  was  trying  him  high.  To  pene- 
trate into  the  boudoir  of  an  actress  —  two  act- 
resses, apparently — was  practically  equivalent 
to  visiting  a  theatre  dressing-room,  which  he 
knew  to  be  the  last  station  before  perdition. 

Marjorie  shook  hands. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said.  "  I  am  afraid  we  are 
not  quite  dressed  for  callers.  Do  you  mind  ? " 

Uncle  Fred  shook  his  head  feebly,  guiltily 
conscious  that  he  did  not  mind  enough.  His 
niece  was  dressed  in  a  very  simple  blue  serge 
frock,  with  touches  of  scarlet  at  her  waist  and 
wrists.  She  was  thinner  and  paler  than  when  he 
had  last  seen  her.  Late  suppers,  of  course.  She 
had  done  something  theatrical  but  undeniably 
becoming  to  her  hair,  which,  instead  of  being 
discreetly  piled  upon  her  head,  framed  her  face  in 
a  sort  of  aureole.  In  order  to  shake  hands  with 
him  she  had  deposited  upon  the  mantelpiece, 
without  any  attempt  at  concealment,  a  small 
powder-puff,  with  which  she  had  obviously  been 


THE  GREAT  PRETEND  277 

tampering  with  that  infallible  symbol  of  respect- 
ability, a  shiny  nose.  She  wore  very  thin  black 
silk  stockings  and  patent  leather  shoes,  with 
dangerously  high  heels.  One  of  the  shoes  had  a 
hole  in  the  sole,  but  Marjorie  kept  that  sole  glued 
to  the  floor  throughout  the  interview.  The  silk 
stockings  had  lisle  tops,  but  naturally  Uncle  Fred 
did  not  know  this.  Blinking  feebly,  he  turned 
his  attention  to  Marjorie's  companion.  In  the 
obscurity  of  the  vestibule  he  had  not  particularly 
noticed  her.  He  did  so  now.  His  pale  blue  eyes 
bulged. 

Before  him  he  beheld  a  small,  fluffy  creature 
in  a  flimsy  garment  which  she  would  have  called 
a  negligee,  but  which  to  Uncle  Fred  looked 
suspiciously  like  a  nightgown.  On  her  feet  were 
padded  pink  satin  bedroom  slippers.  Her  lips 
were  bright  red,  and  were  directing  a  dazzling 
smile  upon  him.  There  were  dark  hollows  under 
her  large  grey  eyes.  Uncle  Fred  resolutely 
averted  his  gaze,  and  turned  again  to  his  niece. 

"This  is  Miss  Lyle,"  announced  Marjorie. 
"We  share  the  flat.  Liss,  dear,  this  is  my  uncle, 
Mr.  Clegg.  Well,  Uncle  Fred,  how  are  you  ? 
I'm  sorry  we  can't  offer  you  tea,  but  we — we 
have  practically  all  our  meals  at  a  restaurant. 
Don't  we,  Liss?" 


278          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  We  simply  live  there  1 "  affirmed  Liss. 

"  Will  you  have  a  cigarette  ? "  continued 
Marjorie,  offering  a  box.  "Don't  mind  about 
that  being  the  last  one  !  There  are  plenty  more." 

"  I  do  not  smoke,"  replied  Uncle  Fred  coldly. 

"  Throw  it  to  me,  Marjorie  ! "  chirped  the 
vision  in  the  negligee.  A  moment  later,  genuinely 
oblivious  of  the  sensation  she  was  causing,  Liss 
was  lying  back  in  the  arm-chair,  blowing  smoke 
rings  up  to  the  ceiling. 

Marjorie  proceeded  to  make  conversation. 

"  Have  you  been  at  Netherby  lately  ? "  she 
asked.  "  I  haven't  heard  a  word  from  anybody 
there  since  I  left.  I  wrote  to  father  and  mother, 
but  neither  of  them  answered,  so  I  gave  it  up.  I 
was  sorry,  all  the  same.  I  hear  from  Joe,  of 
course.  Have  they  conscripted  Amos  yet  ?  How 
are  the  children  ? " 

This  was  neither  the  tone  nor  the  temper  that 
Uncle  Fred  had  anticipated  from  the  prodigal. 
He  had  expected  either  flamboyant  defiance  or 
broken-hearted  contrition — most  probably  the 
latter.  This  resolute,  cheery,  ladylike  —  yes,  he 
had  to  admit  it,  ladylike  —  bonhomie  was  making 
his  mission  more  difficult  than  he  had  anticipated. 
He  cleared  his  throat. 

"  I  was  at  Netherby  during  July,"  he  began. 


THE  GREAT  PRETEND  279 

"  Your  father  and  mother  are  well,  though  borne 
down  with  sorrow,  over — over  —  " 

"  Over  what  ? " 

Uncle  Fred,  who  had  meant  to  improve  the 
occasion,  baulked  at  his  first  fence. 

"  Over  this  wicked  war,"  he  substituted. 

"Well,  they  haven't  much  to  worry  about," 
said  Marjorie  composedly.  "Joe  tells  me  that 
he's  in  no  particular  danger,  except  from  odd 
long-range  shells.  Amos  —  I  suppose  he  has 
kept  out  of  it  all  right  ? " 

"Your  brother  is  in  Glasgow,"  said  Uncle 
Fred,  "  doing  civilian  war  work  of  national  im- 
portance." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Marjorie.  "Trust  Amos ! " 

"Your  father,"  continued  Uncle  Fred,  "com- 
missioned me  to  ascertain  your  whereabouts  in 
London  —  "  » 

"  How  did  you  find  us,  by  the  way  ? "  asked 
Marjorie.  "  It  was  rather  clever  of  you." 

"  I  set  an  investigation  on  foot,"  replied  Uncle 
Fred  with  a  not  very  successful  assumption  of 
grandeur. 

"  Quite  a  little  Sherlock  Holmes  ! "  remarked 
an  approving  voice. 

Despite  himself,  Uncle  Fred  looked  round. 
The  small  siren  in  the  arm-chair  was  regarding 


280  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

him  with  obvious  interest.  Doubtless  she  was 
taking  his  moral  measure,  with  a  view  to  ultimate 
conquest.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Liss  was  wonder- 
ing whether  it  would  be  feasible  to  borrow  five 
shillings  from  him. 

"How  did  you  set  about  it  ?"  Marjorie  con- 
tinued. 

"  I  decided  not  to  question  the  police.  We  were 
anxious  to  have  as  little  scandal  as  possible  —  " 

Marjorie  rose  with  some  deliberation,  and  took 
her  stand  upon  the  hearthrug  exactly  opposite 
her  diplomatic  relative. 

"  What  did  you  do  ? "  she  asked. 

"  I  began  by  instituting  inquiries  among  the 
London  theatrical  managers." 

"  Then  you  knew  I  was  working  on  the  stage  ? " 

"  Yes.  Your  mother  recognised  your  likeness 
in  some  periodical." 

Marjorie  nodded  her  head. 

"  So  that  was  why  father  stopped  my  allow- 
ance ! "  she  said.  "  I  was  wondering.  Well,  go 
on.  Father  has  sent  you  to  see  me  ?  What  for  ? " 

Uncle  Fred  had  carefully  rehearsed  the  little 
address  which  he  proposed  to  deliver  to  his  errant 
niece.  Marjorie's  point-blank  query  gave  him 
as  good  an  opening  as  he  appeared  likely  to  get. 

"Your  father,"  he  began,  settling  down  to 
work,  "is  a  just  man  —  " 


THE  GREAT  PRETEND  281 

"Yes;  I  think  you're  right  there,"  agreed 
Marjorie.  "He  tries  to  be,  anyhow  ;  but  he's 
too  ignorant  and  narrow  to  succeed.  That  was 
why  I  left  home.  Go  on  ! " 

"Your  father,"  reiterated  Uncle  Fred,  who 
was  of  that  brand  of  orator  which  finds  it  easier, 
when  interrupted,  to  go  right  back  to  the  be- 
ginning, "  is  a  just  man  —  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  know.  You  said  that  before,"  said 
Marjorie. 

ffNo  Encores,  by  Request !"  added  Liss. 

"  Your  father  suggested  that  when  I  returned 
to  London  I  should  institute  inquiries  as  to  your 
whereabouts.  He  was  anxious  to  know  if  you 
had  been  spared  during  these  years,  and  —  " 

"  That  was  very  kind  of  him,"  said  Marjorie. 
"No  !"  — as  Uncle  Fred  took  another  breath  — 
"  don't  go  back  to  the  beginning  again  !  '  If  I 
had  been  spared ' — yes  ? " 

"And,  if  so,  what  your  circumstances  were." 

"Why?" 

"Your  father  said  he  would  not  like  to  feel 
that  you  were  in  actual  destitution,  and  — " 

"Oh!    And?" 

"  I  was  to  tell  him  if  you  were." 

"And  if  I  were?" 

"  He  did  not  say  ;    but  he  practically  gave  me 


282  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

to  understand  that  if  you  would  send  him  your 
assurance  that  you  were  truly  and  humbly  re- 
pentant, and  would  endeavour  in  future,  by 
Divine  Grace,  to  raise  yourself  from  your  present 
condition"  —  Uncle  Fred  was  settling  comfort- 
ably down  now  to  his  pulpit  manner  —  "he  was 
prepared  on  his  part,  to  temper  justice  with 
mercy.  You  would  be  provided  for.  Of  course, 
you  would  never  be  permitted  to  return  home. 
There  are  the  children  to  think  of — " 

Next  moment,  Uncle  Fred  had  the  surprise  of 
his  blameless  and  dreary  existence.  A  small 
figure  in  a  tempestuous  negligee  whirled  into  his 
field  of  vision,  and  Liss — white-faced,  stammer- 
ing, passionate  —  stood  over  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  screamed.  "  You 
silly  old  blear-eyed  devil,  what  do  you  mean  by 
it  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  crowding  into  this 
flat  where  you  weren't  invited,  and  insulting  my 
Marjie  ?  How  dare  you  !  Get  out  before  we 
throw  you  out  —  do  you  hear  ?  You  psalm-sing- 
ing old  nanny-goat,  for  two  pins  I'd  pull  your 
rotten  little  beard  off  I"  She  flew  to  Marjorie, 
and  threw  an  arm  round  her  shoulders.  "And  to 
think  that  real  men  are  dying  in  this  war  every 
minute  —  and  the  finest  women  in  the  world  kill- 
ing themselves  with  overwork — just  to  keep 


THE  GREAT  PRETEND  283 

insects  like  you  alive!  Why,  I  —  Oh!"  She 
choked. 

Marjorie  restored  her  small,  hysterical,  half- 
f amished  champion  to  the  arm-chair. 

"  That's  all  right,  Baby,"  she  said  placidly. 
"  He  means  well,  but  he's  had  the  same  upbring- 
ing as  father  —  poor  old  man  !  Sit  down  !  Sit 
down  too,  Uncle  Fred!"  (The  dazed  ambas- 
sador was  groping  for  the  door. )  "I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

The  symposium  resumed  its  session.  Uncle 
Fred  was  so  benumbed  by  his  recent  experience 
that  when  his  late  assailant  deliberately  renovated 
the  scarlet  of  her  lips  in  his  presence  he  made  no 
protest  at  all.  How  quickly  a  man  can  become 
a  roue,  even  at  fifty-nine  ! 

"You  can  tell  father,"  announced  Marjorie, 
"  that  you  gave  me  his  message,  and  that  I  know 
him  well  enough  to  understand  his  point  of  view. 
In  a  way,  there's  something  rather  fine  about  it. 
I  have  seen  enough  of  life  in  the  last  year  or  two 
to  know  that  this  world  would  be  none  the  worse 
for  a  touch  of  good  old-fashioned,  Old  Testa- 
ment, discipline.  Also,  that  many  of  my  sex 
aren't  to  be  trusted  with  a  latch-key.  But  you 
can  remind  him,  from  me,  that  I  am  his  daughter 
—  and  quite  capable  of  taking  care  of  myself  ! " 
She  sat  down  again. 


284          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  Now,  I  will  tell  you  exactly  what  I  have  been 
doing  during  the  last  two  years.  Like  every 
decent,  able-bodied  person  in  this  land,  I  have 
been  doing  what  I  could  in  the  way  of  war  work. 
I  wasn't  able  to  do  as  much  as  I  wanted,  because 
my  education  had  been  completely  neglected  ; 
also,  as  most  war  work  is  unpaid,  I  had  to  work 
for  my  living  at  the  same  time.  That  was  why  I 
went  on  the  stage.  By  working  at  night  I  had 
my  days  free  to  serve  in  a  canteen.  I  have  been 
in  the  canteen  for  more  than  a  year  now.  I  am 
not  working  at  present,  because  I  had  a  slight 
accident  to  my  arm.  I  have  also  driven  a  motor- 
car, for  a  cabinet  minister,  liberating  a  man  for 
active  service.  That  was  why  I  bobbed  my  hair, 
so  that  I  could  put  my  service-cap  on  and  off  my 
head  easily.  Most  of  us  have  done  it ;  no  one 
has  time  to  waste  over  doing  hair  these  days.  We 
girl  chauffeurs  and  munition  makers  have  set 
quite  a  fashion.  But,  of  course,  you  aren't  inter- 
ested in  fashions.  Besides,  bobbed  hair  doesn't 
really  prove  anything.  What  you  want  is  some 
direct  evidence  of  what  I  have  been  doing."  She 
thought  for  a  moment.  "  I'll  tell  you  what — I'll 
show  you  my  motor-driver's  licence.  I  know  I 
put  it  away  somewhere." 

She  crossed  to  the  bureau,  and  took  the  licence 
out  of  a  drawer. 


THE  GREAT  PRETEND  285 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said,  unfolding  it.  "You 
will  notice  it  hasn't  been  renewed.  That  was 
because  —  " 

Her  voice  died  away.  Liss  glanced  up,  saw 
that  her  friend  had  turned  white,  and  was  sway- 
ing on  her  feet.  She  ran  impulsively  to  her  aid  ; 
but  in  a  moment  Marjorie  had  recovered  herself, 
walked  across  to  her  flinching  relative,  and 
proffered  the  licence. 

"  There — you  see  ! "  she  said.  "  I  drove  a  car 
during  all  that  time.  It  was  war  work,  all  right." 

Uncle  Fred  examined  the  document  mechanic- 
ally, and  handed  it  back. 

"  That  seems  quite  in  order,"  he  muttered. 

"Father  is  a  business  man,  I  know,"  continued 
Marjorie,  with  a  cheery  smile  ;  aand  I  know 
business  men  like  to  see  evidence  in  black  and 
white.  You  can  keep  that  licence,  if  you  like,  and 
send  it  to  him  from  me,  as  a  certificate  of  char- 
acter, and  tell  him  that  I  am  very  well  —  and 
busy  —  and  happy  —  and  respectable  —  and  don't 
require  providing  for  in  any  way  whatever.  And 
you  can  give  my  love  to  mother." 

Uncle  Fred  rose  to  his  feet,  and  held  out  his 
hand  hesitatingly.  Down  in  his  puny  soul  he 
dimly  felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  something 
rather  unusually  big. 


286  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  I  will  tell  your  father  I  have  seen  you,"  he 
said,  "  and  what  you  have  told  me.  And  I'm — 
I'm  sorry,  if — " 

Marjorie  cut  him  short. 

"  That's  all  right ! "  she  said,  with  great  cheer- 
fulness. "It  was  a  difficult  mission  for  you,  I 
know,  and  I'm  not  surprised  you  made  a  mess  of 
it  Now,"  she  added  briskly,  "I  feel  terribly 
inhospitable  at  not  having  given  you  any  tea. 
Liss  and  I  are  just  going  out  to  dinner.  It's  — 
it's  —  rather  a  special  occasion  with  us,  and  we 
are  going  to  have  an  extra  good  one.  Won't  you 
join  us  ?" 

She  crossed  to  the  bureau  again,  and  picked  up 
the  writing-pad. 

"We  are  going,"  she  announced,  resolutely 
avoiding  the  bulging  eyes  of  Miss  Elizabeth 
Lyle,  "  to  have  Potage  a  la  reine,  Sole  meuniere, 
Duckling,  Meringues — 

But  Uncle  Fred  was  down  and  out. 

"  I  can't  accept,"  he  replied,  almost  piteously. 
"I  must  be  off  to  Dulwich.  But  thank  you 
kindly  ! "  He  moved  to  the  door.  "  I  will  write 
to  your  father.  Good-bye,  my  girl ! "  He  nod- 
ded nervously  towards  Liss.  "Good-evening, 
alll" 

Next  moment  the  vestibule  door  had  clicked 
behind  him,  and  the  girls  were  alone. 


THE  GKEAT  PRETEND  287 

Liss  threw  her  arms  round  Marjorie's  neck. 

"  O  magnificent,  wonderful  angel !  How  you 
stood  up  to  that  silly  old  Nosey  Parker  !  How 
you  put  him  in  his  place  !  How  you  bluffed 
him  !  But,  darling,  what  a  risk  !  Supposing  he 
had  accepted — what  then  ? " 

"  What  then  ? "  Marjorie  laughed  unsteadily. 
"  We  would  have  taken  him  round  the  corner  to 
Savroni's,  and  given  him  his  dinner  —  every  bit 
of  it  —  that's  all!" 

Liss  looked  timidly  up  into  her  idol's  face. 

"Dearest,"  she  enquired  apprehensively,  "are 
you  feeling  funny,  at  all  ?  I  don't  like  the  way 
your  fist  is  clenched.  Relax  ! " 

"I'm  not  feeling  funny,"  Marjorie  assured  her, 
relaxing  the  fist  in  question.  "  Unless  it's  funny 
to  be  rich  ! "  She  held  out  her  hand.  "  Look  ! 
Look  what  I  found  inside  the  pocket  of  my  motor 
licence  !  I  might  have  guessed,  after  that  mes- 
sage. Dear,  kind  old  man  !  I  might  have  guessed 
-bless  him!" 

In  her  upturned  palm  lay  a  neatly  folded 
bank-note. 

Liss's  eyes  goggled. 

"  How  much  ? "  she  whispered. 

"We'll  see."  Marjorie  unfolded  the  rustling 
treasure-trove.  "  Ten  pounds !  Now  wasn't  I 


288  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

right  not  to  put  down  oysters  ?  Oh,  Baby,  if 
only,  only,  only  we  had  the  guests  1 " 

But  Fortune,  once  she  veers  round,  seldom  does 
things  by  halves.  There  came  a  knock  on  the 
outer  door. 

"Hallo!"  cried  Liss.  "Surely  it's  not  that 
old  Nanny  back  again  ? " 

It  was  not.  It  was  a  soldier  —  or  rather,  an 
elderly  civilian  in  uniform.  He  saluted,  with  all 
the  elaboration  of  the  newly  initiated.  Both 
girls  surveyed  him  in  perplexity.  Then  Liss 
screamed  : 

"  It's  Uncle  Ga-Ga  ! "  and  embraced  him  forth- 
with. 

Uncle  Ga-Ga  it  was.  With  his  hair  dyed  a  new 
and  awe-inspiring  colour,  and  an  almost  convinc- 
ing set  of  false  teeth,  he  did  not  look  a  day  over 
forty-five.  He  held  his  old  head  proudly  erect, 
and  offered  a  hand  to  each  of  the  girls,  with  a 
gallant  gesture. 

"Yes,  ladies,"  he  said;  "I  have  the  great 
happiness  to  inform  you  that  I  have  this  day  been 
accepted  as  a  member  of  His  Majesty's  Forces. 
I  wear  the  uniform  of  King  George  the  Fifth." 
His  right  hand  went  to  the  salute.  "  The  King  — 
God  bless  him  !  I  have  only  just  put  it  on,  and 
I  came  round  here  at  once  to  show  myself  to  you 


THE  GREAT  PRETEND         289 

—  my  two  kind  friends  and  unfailing  supporters  ! 
There  were  some  of  my  colleagues" — his  mild 
eyes  flashed  —  "men  who  should  have  known 
better  —  who  derided  my  pretensions  —  who  said 
that  the  King  had  no  need  of  my  services  !  But 
not  you,  ladies  !  You  knew  the  King  better  than 
they  did  !  Now,  behold  me  !  It  is  a  common 
triumph  for  us  all ! " 

"And  we  are  going  to  celebrate  it ! "  announced 
Liss.  "  You  are  coming  straight  out  to  dinner 
with  us  —  isn't  he,  Marjorie  ? " 

"  Most  certainly  he  is  ! "  said  Marjorie. 

"We  are  going,"  proclaimed  Liss,  "to  have 
Potage  a  la  reine  ;  Sole  meuniere — " 

Uncle  Ga-Ga  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
made  a  courtly  bow. 

"  Ladies,"  he  announced,  "  you  overwhelm  me  ! 
But  before  I  accede  to  your  most  hospitable  in- 
vitation, pray  read  this  :  it  may  affect  your 
immediate  plans.  I  found  it  lying  thrust  under 
your  outer  door." 

He  proffered  an  orange-coloured  envelope.  It 
was  addressed  to  Marjorie. 

Telegrams  in  war-time  take  tense  priority  over 
everything  else.  Marjorie  seized  the  envelope, 
ripped  open  the  flap  with  one  feverish  movement, 
took  out  the  message,  and  carried  it  to  the  window 


290          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

to  read.  Then,  very  deliberately,  for  the  first 
and  only  time  in  her  life,  she  slid  down  upon  the 
floor,  with  her  head  on  the  window-seat,  in  a  dead 
faint.' 

"Oh,  God  I"  cried  Liss,  running  to  her  —  "it 
must  be  something  about  Roy  ! " 

They  carried  her  to  the  sofa,  and  laid  her  down. 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  but  began  to  flutter  again 
almost  immediately. 

"The  telegram  —  should  we  read  it  ?  Would 
it  be  right  ? "  asked  Uncle  Ga-Ga. 

" Oh,  yes  !"  said  Liss  :  "I'd  forgotten  about 
it."  She  turned  back  Marjorie's  closed  fingers, 
extracted  the  crumpled  message,  and  smoothed 
it  out.  Then  she  gave  a  little  sudden  chuckling 
sob. 

"  Listen  1 "  she  said  ;  and  read  the  message 
aloud.  .  .  . 

"  Sent  off  from  Folkestone,"  she  added  breath- 
lessly, "  at  four-forty.  What  time  is  it  now  ? " 

"About  half -past  six,  I  think." 

"  Then  he  will  be  here  any  minute  ! "  cried 
Liss,  in  sudden  panic.  "  We  must  get  her  to  for 
him,"  she  added,  in  the  mysterious  syntax  of  her 
kind.  "Help me, Uncle!" 

"A  lovely  face ! "  observed  Uncle  Ga-Ga, 
respectfully,  as  he  assisted  Liss  in  administering 


THE  GREAT  PRETEND  291 

to  Marjorie  what  they  both  firmly  believed  to 
be  First  Aid  —  "  but  pale,  and  thin  ! "  He  sighed 
gently.  "It  is  rather  beautiful  to  think  that 
people  can  still  swoon  for  joy." 

"Not  joy,"  said  Liss,  panting — "starvation  ! 
But  she'll  have  her  guest  at  dinner,  after  all. 
(She's  coming  to  now.)  It's  been  a  great  pre- 
tend!  (Darling,  lean  your  head  on  me.)  She'll 
be  as  right  as  rain  to-morrow.  In  fact,  she's  jolly 
well  got  to  be.  It's  her  wedding  day  ! " 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    UNDEFEATED 

THIS  morning  I  went  to  church,  in  a  real  church 
—  the  parish  church  of  Craigfoot.  After  more 
than  three  years,  I  found  myself  once  again  in 
the  Baronrigg  gallery. 

Of  late,  I  have  become  accustomed  to  perform- 
ing my  religious  exercises  in  the  open  air,  in  a 
boggy  field  of  Flanders  or  Picardy,  struggling, 
in  company  with  a  choir  of  some  hundreds  of 
devout,  mud-splashed  "Jocks,"  armed  to  the  teeth 
and  insufficiently  supplied  with  hymn-books,  to 
produce  a  respectable  volume  of  psalmody  ;  or 
listening  resignedly,  in  an  east  wind,  to  a  sermon 
replete  with  apposite  references  to  the  canker- 
wurrum  and  the  pammer-wurrum,  delivered  with 
gusto  by  an  untimely  young  chaplain  newly  out 
from  home. 

I  shared  the  Baronrigg  pew  with  the  Matron 
of  the  Eskerley  Auxiliary  Military  Hospital,  and 
some  half-dozen  restive  convalescents  in  hospital 
blue.  It  was  January,  and  bitter  cold,  but  no 
fire  burned  in  old  Neil  Carrick's  grate  at  the 
back  of  the  gallery.  The  coal  ration  —  like  the 


THE  UNDEFEATED  298 

thermometer — hovered   near    to   zero   in   those 
days. 

Of  the  rightful  occupants  of  the  pew  there  was 
no  representative.  The  son  of  the  house  was 
commanding  his  company  somewhere  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  La  Bassee  :  at  least,  that  was 
where  I  had  left  him  last  week.  The  master 

—  well,  there  I  was  no  wiser  than  the  rest.    All 
I  knew  was  what  I  had  read  in  the  letter  which 
he  had  written  me  at  the  time  of  his  disappearance 

—  a  letter  very  similar  in  substance  and  temper 
to  that  received  by  his  son. 

My  eyes  wandered  over  the  familiar  scene 
below.  Here,  too,  were  changes  :  even  the  im- 
mutable ritual  of  a  Scottish  parish  church  had 
been  affected  by  forty-one  months  of  war.  Doctor 
Chirnside  was  still  in  command.  He  was  preach- 
ing the  sermon  now  —  on  a  text  from  his  beloved 
Isaiah — more  gaunt,  more  eagle-eyed,  more  un- 
compromising than  ever.  The  parish,  I  knew, 
were  of  the  opinion  that  "the  auld  man  was 
failing."  Still,  there  he  was,  sticking  to  his  post. 

"  The  most  practical  way,"  he  had  declared 
recently  to  a  tactfully  inquisitive  Kirk  Session, 
"to  maintain  national  efficiency  at  a  time  of 
abnormal  national  wastage  is  for  those  of  us  who 
are  spared  to  increase  our  output ;  to  work 


294  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

longer  hours  —  longer  years,  in  my  case — in 
order  to  make  good  the  loss  of  those  who  have 
been  called  from  our  midst.  So,  though  I  have 
laboured  long  in  the  vineyard  ;  though  I  have 
lingered  long  in  the  arena,  and  am  now  perhaps 
dignus  rude  donari,  I  shall  remain  at  my  post 
until  God  giveth  the  Victory.  In  other  words, 
Gentlemen,  you  may  whistle  for  my  resignation!" 
Still,  the  influences  of  the  time  seemed  to  have 
affected  the  Doctor  like  the  rest  of  us.  He  was 
more  human,  less  Olympian.  The  First  Prayer 
—  in  which,  it  may  be  remembered,  the  Doctor 
was  accustomed  to  commune  with  his  Maker  to 
the  pointed  exclusion  of  the  congregation — was 
now  much  shorter.  The  Second  Prayer  —  the 
Prayer  of  Intercession — was  considerably 
longer,  and  very  moving  to  hear.  In  that  prayer, 
week  by  week,  the  progress  of  the  Great  War  was 
reviewed — reviewed  from  the  standpoint  of  an 
obscure  but  not  altogether  undutiful  little  parish 
in  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland.  Not  a  boy  from 
that  parish,  be  he  laird's  son  or  herd  laddie,  fell 
in  action  on  this  front  or  that  but  the  fact  was 
duly  noted,  with  sorrowful  pride  and  amazing 
tenderness,  in  the  Prayer  of  Intercession  in  the 
Parish  Kirk  of  Craigfoot  on  the  following  Sab- 
bath. 


THE  UNDEFEATED  295 

There  were  many  such  events  to  record.  The 
Roll  of  Honour,  fluttering  in  the  draughty  porch 
outside,  bore  witness  to  that  fact.  So  did  the 
composition  of  the  congregation.  Most  of  the 
men  present  were  forty-five  years  old  and  up- 
wards. Those  below  that  age  were  mainly  in 
khaki.  But  it  was  the  women  who  told  the  most 
eloquent  tale.  The  three  tall  daughters  of  Sir 
Alistair  Graeme  —  The  Three  Grenadiers  —  still 
sat  side  by  side  in  the  Burling  pew,  to  all  appear- 
ances unchanged  except  for  their  V.A.D.  uni- 
forms. Yet  I  knew  that  each  of  those  girls  had 
been  made  a  wife  and  widow  within  three  short 
years.  Mrs.  Gillespie,  the  Bank  Manager's  wife, 
on  the  other  hand,  made  no  pretence  of  being 
the  same  woman  :  her  son  Robert,  the  Divinity 
student,  had  died  of  dysentery  in  Mesopotamia. 
Of  the  Misses  Peabody,  only  the  elder  now  sat  in 
the  pew.  The  younger  was  dead  —  dead  of  over- 
work as  a  ward-maid  in  a  Base  Hospital.  None 
disputed  her  claim  to  be  of  the  elect  now.  Little 
Mrs.  Menzies,  the  wife  of  Lord  Eiskerley's  late 
factor,  was  changed  too — but  only  in  name.  She 
had  done  her  bit  —  by  becoming  the  widow  of  a 
D.S.O.  and  promptly  marrying  a  C.M.G. 

Looking  further  afield,  I  observed  that  old 
Couper  and  his  wife  were  almost  crowded  out  of 


296          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

their  pew  by  a  string  of  grandchildren,  billeted 
upon  Abbotrigg  until  such  time  as  a  newly- 
widowed  daughter-in-law  could  adjust  her  com- 
passes again.  I  missed  the  kindly  vacant  count- 
enance of  my  friend  Jamie  Leslie,  our  organ- 
blower,  which  had  usually  been  visible,  on  pre- 
war days,  peering  furtively  round  the  red  rep  cur- 
tain which  screened  the  organ-bellows  from  view. 
His  place  was  now  occupied  by  a  bucolic  young 
gentleman  of  thirteen.  Subsequent  inquiry 
on  my  part  elicited  the  news  that  Jamie  had  at 
last  achieved  his  heart's  desire  and  been  accepted 
for  the  Army,  the  authorities  having  very  prop- 
erly decided  that  what  was  sauce  for  the  Staff 
was  sauce  for  the  rank-and-file. 

In  a  back  pew  under  the  gallery  I  noticed  old 
Mrs.  Rorison,  accompanied  by  her  giant  son, 
Jock,  the  Scots  Guardsman — discharged,  per- 
manently unfit,  with  a  crippled  foot.  I  had  met 
the  pair  in  Main  Street  the  day  before. 

"  That's  bad  luck,  Jock  ! "  I  had  said,  noting 
his  crutches. 

"  It's  naething  of  the  kind  ! "  replied  Jock's 
mother,  tartly.  (She  usually  replied  for  Jock.) 
"  See  him,  sir  !  Sax  feet  fower  —  and  gets  him- 
sel'  shot  in  the  fit !  I  doot  he  was  standing  on 
his  head  in  they  trenches  ! "  concluded  the  old 
lady  bitterly.  "  Trust  him  ! " 


THE  UNDEFEATED  297 

Eric  was  sitting  in  the  Buckholm  pew,  with 
his  lady  mother  :  I  was  to  lunch  with  them 
presently.  I  surveyed  my  friend's  handsome 
profile,  his  empty  sleeve,  and  the  medal  ribbons 
on  his  uniform.  I  thought  of  our  regiment  — 
which  I  now  commanded  and  which  he  himself 
had  led.  I  thought  of  the  day,  eighteen  months 
since,  when  we  had  carried  him  away  insensible, 
followed  by  what  was  left  of  our  personnel,  from 
that  tight  corner  opposite  Beaumont  Hamel. 
Eric  was  home  now  with  a  decoration  and  a  soft 
job — the  idol  and  the  oracle  of  the  country-side. 
I  had  not  been  decorated,  or  even  mentioned  in 
Dispatches,  but  I  had,  so  far,  preserved  a  whole 
skin — which  was  far  better — and  been  confirmed 
in  my  rank.  Though  lean  and  grizzled,  I  still 
felt  fighting  fit,  and  had  no  desire  to  change 
places  with  any  one.  I  was  staying  at  The 
Heughs  —  a  sober  household  in  those  days,  for 
my  brother  Walter  had  lost  his  eldest  boy  at 
Gallipoli.  Of  the  other  two,  John  was  helping 
to  navigate  one  of  His  Majesty's  Destroyers, 
while  the  youngest,  Alan,  my  namesake  and 
particular  crony,  was  consuming  his  impatient 
young  soul — to  his  mother's  private  relief  —  at 
Sandhurst. 

"Finally,  my  brethren" — began  Doctor  Chirn- 


298          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

side ;  and  I  knew  that  we  were  within  five  minutes 
of  the  end  of  the  sermon.  The  maimed  men 
beside  me  wriggled  in  relieved  anticipation,  then 
settled  down  again  ;  and  I  hastened  to  conclude 
my  church  inspection. 

I  glanced  across  to  the  Netherby  pew.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Clegg  were  both  there,  with  the  younger 
children.  The  two  grown-up  sons  were  absent  : 
I  remembered  having  heard  vaguely  that  one  of 
them  had  enlisted  and  that  the  other  had  secured 
a  "cushie"  job  somewhere.  The  fair  daughter 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  I  was  sorry,  because  a 
thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever  —  especially 
during  a  long  sermon.  I  wondered  what  had 
become  of  her  —  and  Master  Roy's  infatuation. 
I  had  once  or  twice,  during  the  early  days  in 
France,  made  playful  allusion  to  the  lady  in 
Roy's  presence,  but  my  pleasantries  had  not  been 
well  received,  and  had  been  discontinued. 

I  gave  a  final  glance  round  the  church. 

"Plus  fa  change —  ! "    I  said  to  myself. 

But  I  was  a  little  too  quick  in  my  judgment. 

"They  that  wait  upon  the  Lord  shall  renew 
their  strength  ;  they  shall  mount  up  with  wings 
as  eagles  ;  they  shall  run,  and  not  be  weary  :  they 
shall  walk,  and  not  faint.  May  God  sanctify  to 
us  this  poor  exposition  of  His  Word  ;  and  to 
Him  alone  be  the  glory  and  the  praise  ! " 


THE  UNDEFEATED  299 

The  last  sentence,  at  least,  was  familiar  enough. 
It  had  rounded  off  every  one  of  Doctor  Chirn- 
side's  sermons,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  for  the 
last  thirty-five  years.  The  congregation  came  to 
life  :  the  organ-bellows  began  to  pump,  almost 
automatically,  for  the  last  hymn.  The  elders  of 
the  kirk  fumbled  under  their  seats  for  the  collec- 
tion-bags. 

We  rose  on  a  triumphant  chord  from  the  little 
organ,  and  sang  the  hymn  —  stoutly  enough,  and 
with  that  prickly  sensation  at  the  back  of  the  nose 
which  attacks  undemonstrative  people  engaged 
in  a  slightly  emotional  exercise  ;  for  the  hymn 
was  "  Onward,  Christian  Soldiers  "  !  I  learned 
afterwards  that  it  had  been  sung  (alternately 
with  the  hymn  For  Those  at  Sea) ,  at  the  close  of 
morning  worship  every  single  Sunday  since  the 
regular  casualty  lists  had  started.  Then,  in  good 
Scottish  fashion,  we  remained  standing  for 
Doctor  Chirnside's  patriarchal  and  impressive 
Benediction. 

"May  the  Peace  of  God,  which  Passeth  All 
Understanding  .  .  ." 

His  old  voice  died  away  ;  and  I  was  on  the 
point  of  stooping  down  to  grope  for  my  glen- 
garry, when  I  became  conscious  of  a  gradual 
stiffening  in  the  attitude  of  the  congregation. 


300          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

The  organ  began  to  rumble  again.  (I  could  see 
the  young  organ-blower  working  as  if  to  crack 
every  muscle  in  his  back.)  Then,  suddenly, 
explosively,  with  every  pedal  and  stop  in  action, 
it  crashed  into  " God  Save  the  King"  ! 

Instinctively  I  came  to  attention.  But  though 
my  head  was  immovable,  I  fear  I  allowed  my 
eyes  to  stray  downward  to  the  scene  below.  Here 
was  an  unexpected  test  of  war  spirit. 

Our  National  Anthem  is  a  curious  canticle ;  you 
never  know  what  it  will  do  with  you.  It  may 
cause  you  to  feel  merely  ridiculous  —  as  when  an 
orchestra  of  aliens  in  a  restaurant  drags  you  to 
your  feet  in  the  middle  of  your  soup.  Too  often 
it  elicits  a  purely  perfunctory  acknowledgment. 
But  there  are  occasions  when  the  sound  of  it  grips 
the  very  heart  of  you  ;  when  you  are  conscious, 
deep  down  in  your  well-ordered  British  soul,  of  a 
sudden,  tremendous,  irresistible  wave  of  passion- 
ate loyalty  to  the  Sovereign  who  rules  you  and 
the  thousand-year-old  tradition  for  which  he 
stands.  Here  was  such  an  occasion.  Here,  in  this 
little  church,  was  our  battle  hymn  being  thundered 
forth,  after  more  than  three  years  of  battle,  to  a 
community  who  had  been  paying  the  maximum 
price  for  their  participation  therein.  How  would 
they  take  it  ? 


THE  UNDEFEATED  301 

My  field  of  vision  was  naturally  constricted, 
but  without  moving  my  head  I  could  command 
a  fair  view.  Eric  Bethune,  of  course,  was  stand- 
ing as  straight  as  a  ramrod.  So  was  the  elder 
Miss  Peabody  —  also  the  three  poor  Grenadiers. 
The  wounded  men  beside  me  stiffened  their 
twisted  bodies  proudly  :  evidently  it  was  incum- 
bent upon  them  to  teach  the  rest  of  the  congrega- 
tion something. 

Finally,  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  Abbotrigg  pew. 
Old  Couper  and  his  wife  were  standing  side  by 
side,  with  bowed  heads.  I  saw  that  they  were 
holding  hands.  Beside  them,  in  order  of  size, 
were  ranged  five  small  figures  in  black — three 
boys  and  two  girls — the  grandchildren  whose 
father  had  fallen  in  action  six  days  ago.  They 
did  not  look  too  well-fed  —  milk  and  meat  were 
not  over  plentiful  in  those  days  —  but  they  stood 
shoulder  to  shoulder  in  a  perfectly  aligned  row, 
emulating  the  soldiers  in  the  gallery  above.  It 
was  difficult  to  believe  that  they  had  not  rehearsed 
the  formation.  (Probably  they  had,  under  the 
personal  direction  of  a  martinet  home  on  leave. ) 
Each  small  head  was  held  resolutely  up  ;  each 
small  chest  —  situated  rather  low  down,  as  is 
usual  when  we  are  very  young — was  thrust 
resolutely  forward  ;  each  small  pair  of  arms 


302  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

pointed  rigidly  to  the  floor  ;  and  each  pair  of 
round  eyes  gazed  fixedly  and  unblinkingly  into 
space. 

Suddenly,  I  saw  nothing  more.    But  I  remem- 
ber feeling  reassured  about  things. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  OLD  ORDER 

AFTER  church  I  joined  Lady  Christina  and  Eric, 
and  was  conveyed  in  a  very  ancient  victoria — her 
ladyship  had  "put  down"  the  motor,  owing  to 
petrol  difficulties — to  Buckholm  for  luncheon. 
I  noticed  that  my  friend  Bates  no  longer  attended 
to  the  front  door ;  he  was  now,  I  gathered,  guard- 
ing our  coast  from  invasion  somewhere  in  Suffolk. 
His  deputy  was  a  grim-looking  crone  in  a  black 
skirt,  silver-buttoned  coat,  and  yellow  waistcoat, 
which  made  her  look  something  between  a  female 
impersonator  and  a  prison  wardress.  I  seemed 
to  have  encountered  her  in  a  previous  existence 
hanging  washing  on  a  line  on  the  drying-green 
behind  the  Buckholm  orchard.  She  relieved  me 
of  my  glengarry,  gloves,  and  stick,  and  demanded 
my  ration-book. 

"  There  will  be  meat  for  dinner,"  she  explained. 

I  handed  over  the  emergency  ration-book  with 
which  soldiers  on  leave  were  supplied  in  those 
days.  It  was  returned  to  me  when  I  left  the 
house,  lacking  not  only  one  full  meat  coupon,  but 
all  the  butter  and  sugar  coupons  as  well. 


304  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  Her  leddyship  said  you  would  no  be  needing 
them,"  explained  the  wardress,  and  I  meekly 
acquiesced.  If  Lady  Christina  said  that  I  did  not 
need  a  thing,  who  was  I  to  say  that  I  did  ?  In 
any  case  I  was  due  to  rejoin  the  best-fed  Army 
in  the  world  in  a  few  days'  time. 

The  luncheon  party  consisted  of  Lady  Chris- 
tina, as  bolt  upright  as  ever,  at  the  head  of  the 
table  ;  Eric,  at  the  foot ;  Lord  Eskerley  ;  and  a 
weather-beaten  Lieutenant-Commander  of  the 
Royal  Naval  Volunteer  Reserve,  named  John 
Wickersham.  Five  years  ago  he  had  been  mainly 
known  to  fame  as  a  prominent  King's  Counsel,  a 
superb  bridge-player,  and  a  fair-weather  yachts- 
man. Now,  for  three  years  or  more,  his  converted 
pleasure-craft,  navigated  by  its  owner  and  en- 
rolled an  original  member  of  a  certain  silent,  un- 
advertised  brotherhood  of  the  sea,  had  been 
keeping  grim  vigil  over  our  island  coast,  with 
such  effect  that  German  submarine  crews  were 
breaking  into  open  mutiny  rather  than  face  that 
flotilla  of  terror  any  longer.  John  Wickersham 
was  ashore  on  long  leave,  for  the  first  time  for 
many  months. 

Doctor  Chirnside,  who  seldom  missed  his  Sun- 
day luncheon  at  Buckholm,  had  been  called  away, 
to  say  what  he  could  to  a  girl-wife  who  had  just 
received  a  telegram  from  the  War  Office. 


THE  OLD  ORDER  305 

Having  consumed  its  meat  ration  and  sugarless 
apple  tart,  the  company  proceeded  to  mitigate 
the  austerity  of  Lady  Christina's  war-time  regime 
with  a  glass  of  port.  Then,  after  a  perfunctory 
and  short-lived  struggle,  we  yielded  to  the  in- 
evitable and  settled  down  to  the  topic  of  the 
military  situation.  It  was  a  curious  experience 
for  me,  who  had  heard  little  round  that  peaceful 
table  since  boyhood  but  hunting  shop  and  county 
gossip,  to  find  myself  involved  in  the  same  eternal 
debate  as  was  exercising  every  mess,  billet,  and 
dug-out  on  the  Western  Front — a  debate  dis- 
tinguished in  both  cases  by  extreme  personal  bias 
and  entire  ignorance  of  essential  details.  It  is 
hardly  necessary  to  mention  that  Lord  Eskerley, 
the  one  person  who  could  have  enlightened  us, 
offered  no  contribution. 

Naturally  we  concentrated  upon  the  rumours 
of  the  knock-out  blow  which  Germany  was  pre- 
paring to  deal  her  arch-enemy  in  the  early  spring 
—  a  blow  which  came  near,  in  the  actual  event, 
to  driving  a  wedge  between  the  armies  of  France 
and  Britain,  and  establishing  a  German  base  on 
the  English  Channel.  But  in  January,  nineteen- 
eighteen,  when  we  had  not  lost  a  field-gun  or  a 
trench  system  since  the  First  Battle  of  Ypres, 
and  had  been  steadily  winning  back  the  soil  of 


306  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

France  and  accumulating  German  prisoners  for 
more  than  three  years,  no  one  took  such  a  pos- 
sibility seriously.  Eric  was  particularly  sanguine. 

"A  good  thing,  too  I "  he  said.  "  Let  them 
come  !  Then  we  can  sit  well  back,  and  make  a 
clean  job  of  the  lot,  instead  of  getting  hot  and 
dusty  going  to  look  for  them  !  This  war  will 
end  when  we  have  killed  enough  Boches  ;  and 
if  the  Boches  will  help  us  by  coming  along  to  get 
killed  —  and  you  know  what  the  Boche  can  do 
in  that  way  once  he  gives  his  mind  to  it — there 
will  be  no  complaints  on  our  side.  I  feel  —  " 

This  characteristic  pronouncement  was  inter- 
rupted by  Lord  Eskerley. 

"  It's  only  human  nature,  you  know,"  he  said. 
"  You  can't  blame  them.  Naturally  they  think 
of  their  own  front  first.  Must ! " 

This  did  not  seem  to  fit  in  well  with  the  rest 
of  the  conversation — a  not  altogether  unusual 
feature  of  his  lordship's  table-talk. 

"Napoleon  was  right,"  he  continued.  "Or 
was  it  Hannibal  ?  Said  he  would  sooner  fight  two 
first-class  generals  collaborating  than  one  single- 
handed  second-rater.  It  works  out  this  way. 
Tweedledum  says  to  Tweedledee  :  '  You  must 
take  over  more  Front.'  Tweedledee  says  to 
Tweedledum  :  *  It  can't  be  done  !  Look  at  my 


THE  OLD  ORDER  307 

casualty  list  for  the  last  three  months ! '  Tweedle- 
dum replies  :  '  But  you  are  only  holding  about 
half  as  much  line  as  I  am.'  Thereupon  Tweedledee 
produces  statistics  to  show  that  although  he  holds 
the  shorter  line  he  has  sixty-seven  and  a  half  per 
cent,  of  the  enemy  massed  against  him.  And  so 
it  goes  on.  The  old  game  !  I  believe  that  in 
Bohemian  circles  it  is  known  as  'Passing  the 
Buck.'  A  colloquial  but  apposite  expression  !  I 
picked  it  up  from  an  American  attache  in  Paris. 
In  due  course  we  shall  come  to  the  only  solution — 
a  Supreme  Commander,  responsible  for  the  safety 
of  the  whole  line.  But,  as  usual,  we  shall  pay 
in  advance  —  through  the  nose!" 

The  import  of  the  old  gentleman's  ruminations 
was  now  tolerably  apparent  to  all ;  that  is,  to  all 
but  our  hostess. 

"  Eh,  what  ?  What's  he  talking  about  ? "  she 
inquired  sharply  of  me.  (Of  late,  Lady  Chris- 
tina's hearing  has  deteriorated  a  little. )  "  What's 
he  talking  about  ?  Tell  me  ;  he  mumbles  so  ! 
What's  all  this  nonsense  about  Tweedledee  and 
Tweedledum  ?  Who  are  Tweedledee  and 
Tweedledum  ?  They  sound  like  people  out  of 
Punch  —  two  of  those  wretches  in  the  Govern- 
ment. In  German  pay,  every  man- jack  of  them  ! 
Do  you  know  what  Bessie  Brickshire  told  me 
last  week  ?  She  went  to  Downing  Street  —  " 


308  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"Your  leddyship's  coffee  is  up  the  stair," 
announced  the  deep  voice  of  the  prison  wardress ; 
and  a  libellous  and  irrelevant  anecdote  was 
nipped  in  the  bud. 

Lady  Christina  rose,  informed  us  that  she  pro- 
posed to  take  her  coffee  in  her  own  room,  and, 
with  a  passing  admonition  to  her  son  to  be  sparing 
of  the  saccharine,  left  us  to  ours. 

We  lit  cigars  and  stretched  ourselves,  like 
schoolboys  relieved  of  the  pedagogue's  presence. 

"  How  do  they  feel  about  things  in  general  up 
at  the  top,  Eskerley  ? "  asked  John  Wickersham. 
"  We  never  hear  any  news  in  our  job.  Are  they 
all  quite  happy  and  comfortable  ? " 

"  Not  at  all ! "  replied  his  lordship  brusquely. 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"  Not  enough  troops." 

"  How  ?  The  number  of  Divisions  on  the 
Western  Front  hasn't  been  reduced,  has  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  We  are  as  strong  as  ever  —  on 
paper.  But  instead  of  going  frankly  to  the 
Labour  bosses  and  telling  them  that  another  half- 
million  men  must  be  released  from  civilian 
employment,  our  politicians  have  reduced  the  per- 
sonnel of  each  Division  from  thirteen  battalions 
to  ten — nearly  twenty-five  per  cent.  It's  an 
admirable  scheme,  because  it  satisfies  so  many 


THE  OLD  ORDER  309 

people.  It  satisfies  the  politician,  because  it 
saves  his  face  ;  it  satisfies  the  slacker,  because  it 
saves  his  skin  ;  and  it  satisfies  the  Boche,  because 
it's  going  to  save  him  a  lot  of  trouble  when  he 
makes  his  spring  offensive.  The  only  people  who 
are  inclined  to  criticise  it  are  the  insignificant 
individuals  who  are  responsible  for  the  safety  of 
the  Western  Front.  In  fact,  they  are  crying  out 
to  Heaven  for  more  men.  But,  of  course,  nobody 
takes  any  notice  of  recommendations  from  such 
a  prejudiced  person  as  a  soldier.  His  turn  will 
come  later,  when  the  scapegoats  are  being  rounded 
up."  The  old  gentleman  sighed.  "  That's  one  of 
our  worries.  The  other  is  that  we  have  too  many 
Allies." 

"  I  see  !    Too  many  cooks  —  eh  ? " 

"  Precisely  !  I  spend  all  my  working  hours 
nowadays  propitiating  plenipotentiaries  from 
countries  whose  existence  I  had  never  heard  of 
two  years  ago.  By  the  time  I  have  recognised 
the  status  of  this  Ally,  and  soothed  the  suscepti- 
bilities of  that,  the  day  is  over  and  there's  no  time 
left  to  get  on  with  the  war.  I  sometimes  sigh  for 
the  era  when  the  French  and  ourselves  muddled 
along  by  rule  of  thumb  without  having  to  expend 
any  tact  upon  anybody,  except  a  periodical  slap 
on  the  back  to  Russia.  We  few,  we  happy  few, 


310  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

we  band  of  brothers! — and  so  on.  Life  was 
simple  then.  Now  it  is  a  perpetual  Pentecost, 
without  the  feast.  Give  me  a  forlorn  hope  and  a 
lone  hand  every  time ;  that's  an  invincible 
combination — eh,  Alan  ? " 

"I  agree,"  I  said.  "In  the  first  year  or  so 
there  was  a  sort  of  cheerful,  simple,  all-in-the- 
same-boat  feeling  about  everything.  The  French 
liked  us  ;  there  was  not  too  many  of  us  ;  and  what 
there  were  were  perfectly  disciplined  —  old 
Regulars  and  the  pick  of  '  K's '  Army  ;  or  else 
Indian  troops,  with  the  manners  of  Hidalgoes. 
Now,  the  average  French  citizen  never  wants  to 
see  an  ally  again —  " 

Lord  Eskerley  nodded. 

"  Exactly  ! "  he  said.  "And  I  can't  say  I  blame 
him.  I  sometimes  feel  that  way  myself.  We're 
a  fairly  promiscuous  lot.  We  may  be  a  host  of 
modern  crusaders,  but  we're  a  crowd  I  I  feel  like 
old  McKechnie  at  the  revivalist  meeting  here  five 
years  ago,  who  refused  to  stand  up  and  be  '  saved ' 
with  the  rest  because  he  objected  to  going  to 

heaven  '  with  a  d d  Cheap  Trup  ! '  Still,  we 

mustn't  be  ungrateful.  Our  post  entries  may 
have  complicated  the  machine,  but  they  have 
made  it  a  pretty  reliable  piece  of  mechanism." 

"What  I  complain  of,"  interposed  Eric,  "is 


THE  OLD  ORDER  311 

that  we,  upon  whom  the  whole  burden  fell  at  the 
start,  are  almost  forgotten  now.  Most  of  us  have 
ceased  to  exist,  and  the  rest  are  lost  in  a  mob  of 
amateurs." 

"  The  wrong  attitude  entirely  ! "  announced 
Lord  Eskerley  promptly. 

"What's  the  right  attitude,  then?"  asked 
Eric,  who  hated  correction  almost  as  much  as 
Lord  Eskerley  delighted  to  administer  it  to  him. 

"  The  right  attitude,"  replied  the  old  man,  with 
sudden  seriousness,  "  should  be  a  feeling  of  pride 
that  We  were  fortunate  enough  to  find  ourselves 
Original  Members  of  the  Brotherhood — to  hold 
Founders'  Shares.  When  the  edifice  is  completed 
—  and  completed  it  will  be  —  the  world  won't  be 
able  to  see  the  foundations.  But  they  will  be 
there  all  right !  And  we  shall  know  who  laid 
them— the  Old  Order  ! " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  Old  Order?" 
asked  Eric.  "  The  landed  gentry  ? " 

"  Far  more  than  that.  I  mean  the  people  to 
whom  this  country,  as  such,  has  always  really 
meant  something ;  I  mean  every  mother's  son 
who  felt  the  ancient  spirit  of  our  race  wake  in 
him,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  when  the  challenge 
came  in  Nineteen  Fourteen.  I  don't  care  who  he 
was  —  squire's  son,  parson's  son,  miner's  son, 


312  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

poacher's  son  —  it  was  all  the  same.  If  he  was 
conscious  then  of  that  single  blind  impulse  to  get 
up  and  play  the  game,  just  because  it  was  the 
game  ;  just  because  it  was  impossible  to  do 
otherwise  —  without  any  dialectics  about  Free- 
dom, or  Altruism,  or  Democracy,  or  whether  his 
job  would  be  kept  open  for  him  or  not ;  simply 
because  the  Blood  told  him  to  —  then  he  belonged 
to  the  Old  Order  !  He  held  a  Founder's  Share, 
all  right ! 

"  Of  course,"  the  old  man  continued  presently, 
"the  more  one  has  to  give  the  more  one  is  ex- 
pected to  give,  at  a  time  like  this.  And  as  a  rule 
it  seems  to  be  the  best  that  is  taken.  f  This  is  the 
heir  ;  come,  let  us  kill  him ! '  —  that  has  been  the 
general  attitude  of  the  War  Gods.  Only  the 
very  best  would  suffice  —  only  the  very  best ! " 

We  sat  silent  again.  Lord  Eskerley  himself  had 
lost  his  two  sons,  and  his  only  grandson.  After 
him,  what  was  to  become  of  the  ancient  title  — 
of  the  "Big  Hoose"  and  its  "policies" — of  the 
family  which  had  served  the  State  for  three  hun- 
dred years  ?  "  This  is  the  heir ! "  How  true  that 
was.  I  thought  of  my  brother  Walter's  eldest 
son.  Fortunately  in  this  case  there  were  two 
more.  And  Roy  ?  What  would  become  of 
Baronrigg,  if  — 


THE  OLD  ORDER  313 

But  Lord  Eskerley  was  speaking  again — 
more  to  himself  than  to  us. 

"The  Old  Order!  The  Willing  Horse !  There's 
hardly  an  estate,  or  a  farm,  or  an  allotment,  in 
this  country-side,  or  in  any  part  of  Scotland  or 
England,  that  has  not  changed  hands,  prospec- 
tively  at  least,  during  the  last  three  years.  And 
what  with  designedly  disruptive  death  duties,  and 
income  tax  on  the  same  scale,  levied  on  people 
who  have  no  personal  income  —  only  a  few 
precious,  ancient,  barren  acres — the  old  estates 
are  passing  right  away  from  the  original  owners 
—  one  half  sold  to  pay  the  charges  on  the  other 
half.  It  seems  a  queer  way  of  rewarding  people 
who  have  given  everything — to  sell  them  up  be- 
cause they  have  nothing  more  to  give  !  Still,  one 
has  the  supreme  satisfaction  of  having  played 
the  game.  Our  record  stands —  "  He  broke  off. 
"  I  apologise  :  I  was  sermonising  !  Bad  habit ! " 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Three  o'clock  !  I  must 
go  ;  a  trunk  call  comes  through  from  London 
every  afternoon  at  four.  Alan  I  will  give  you  a 
lift." 

A  few  minutes  later  I  found  myself  rolling 
home  in  an  unaccustomed  motor. 

"  I  still  get  twenty  gallons  a  month,"  explained 
Lord  Eskerley.  "  Business  of  State,  and  so  on. 
Going  back  soon  ? " 


314  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  Thursday,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  enjoy  the  war  while  you  can.  When 
it  is  over  there  will  be  no  peace  for  anybody. 
After  the  Boche  has  given  his  last  expiring  kick 
we*  are  going  to  sit  down  to  a  Peace  Congress  in 
comparison  with  which  the  Congress  of  Vienna 
will  take  rank  as  a  model  of  sagacity  and  altru- 
ism. The  Millennium  that  we  are  all  composing 
cantatas  about  is  not  coming — yet." 

"Are  we  going  to  have  more  wars,  then  ? "  I 
asked,  gazing  rather  dejectedly  at  the  red,  wintry 
sunset. 

"We  are  always  going  to  have  more  wars," 
replied  my  companion  testily — "  and  then  more  ! 
(The  final  war  will  be  between  men  and  women. 
Even  that  won't  really  settle  anything,  because 
there  will  be  too  much  rendering  aid  and  comfort 
to  the  enemy  going  on.)  By  the  way,  how  is 
Roy?" 

I  reported  favourably  upon  my  nephew's 
health  and  service  record. 

"  I  suppose  you  know,"  I  remarked,  "that  Tom 
Birnie  appointed  yourself  and  myself  Roy's 
trustees  and  executors  ? " 

"Yes.  Tom  wrote  me  a  letter  to  that  effect 
before  he  enlisted." 

"He  did  enlist,  then?" 


THE  OLD  ORDER  315 

"  I  believe  so." 

I  did  not  press  for  details.  Lord  Eskerley  has 
means  at  his  disposal  of  discovering  most  of  the 
secrets  of  this  world — which  is  not  to  say  that  he 
is  accustomed  to  pass  these  on  to  third  parties. 

"  Have  you  seen  Roy,"  I  continued,  "  or  heard 
from  him  of  late  ? " 

"  I  have  not  seen  him,  and  he  has  not  favoured 
me  with  a  single  line  since  he  went  out  for  the 
first  time.  By  the  way,  I  observe  she  received 
a  decoration  the  other  day  —  for  conspicuous 
bravery  during  an  air-raid." 

"Who?" 

"Who?    The  girl!" 

"  The  girl  ?  You  mean — the  Netherby  girl  ? 
Is  that  affaire  still—  ?" 

"  Yes.  Name  of  Clegg.  You  know  what  be- 
came of  her,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  No.  Roy  has  never  been  communicative  on 
the  subject,  although  I  believe  he  used  to  main- 
tain a  correspondence  with  her.  The  junior 
members  of  the  mess  were  quite  intrigued  about 
it.  I  had  almost  forgotten  her  existence.  What 
became  of  her  ? " 

"She  couldn't  stand  Papa's  peaceful  principles, 
so  ran  away  from  home  and  came  to  London.  I 
employed  her  to  drive  my  car  for  some  time  ;  but 


316          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

she  left  me.  Said  the  work  wasn't  hard  enough. 
She  now  supports  herself  on  the  stage,  so  as  to 
have  her  days  free  for  some  sort  of  drudgery  in  a 
canteen." 

"And  you  think  that  she  and  Roy  still — 

"  Married,  last  August ! "  replied  his  lordship 
simply. 

"What?" 

"On  the  quiet — registry  office  !  Wonderful, 
heavenly  secret,  and  all  that !  How  the  young 
love  a  clandestine  romance  !  And  some  of  us 
never  grow  up !"  added  the  old  man  complacently. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  LAST  THROW 

"I'M  sorry,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Divisional 
Commander,  "but  I  can't  possibly  let  any  unit 
proceed  to  rest  areas  at  present.  Our  orders  are 
to  stand  by,  day  and  night,  and  be  ready  to  move 
in  any  direction  at  an  hour's  notice.  By  the  way, 
this  is  quite  an  informal  meeting,  so  ask  any 
questions  you  like." 

"  What  is  the  latest  news  of  the  tactical  situa- 
tion, sir  ? "  inquired  the  senior  Brigadier,  articu- 
lating the  question  that  was  on  every  one's  lips. 

We  were  gathered  together  at  a  Commanding 
Officers'  Meeting.  The  Division  had  just  emerged 
from  four  months  of  winter  trench-warfare  in 
the  north  —  only  to  be  diverted  from  its  search 
for  well-earned  repose  by  an  urgent  summons  to 
repair  southward  without  delay  to  its  ancient 
stamping-ground  behind  Albert.  We  had  marched 
all  night,  to  be  intercepted  at  dawn  by  orders  to 
bivouac  where  we  stood.  I  myself  was  summoned 
to  the  meeting,  hastily  convened  in  a  village 
school  five  miles  farther  on. 

"  It's  a  pretty  sticky  business  all  round,"  said 


318  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

the  General  frankly.  "  The  situation  appears  to 
be  this.  As  you  know,  it  has  been  obvious  for 
months  that  the  Boche  has  been  meditating  a 
tremendous  offensive  against  some  part  of  the 
British  front.  The  Commander-in-Chief,  not 
having  sufficient  troops  to  give  adequate  protec- 
tion to  the  whole  of  his  line  — 

"  Why  hasnt  he  sufficient  troops  ? "  inquired 
a  voice — the  voice  of  the  C.R.A.,  a  fiery  old 
gentleman  with  a  monocle.  He  was  a  coeval  of 
the  General's,  so  was  qualified  to  act  as  cross- 
examiner  for  us  lesser  lights. 

"It's  not  my  business  to  explain,  or  ours  to 
wonder.  I  can  only  give  you  the  facts.  Last 
year  the  British  Army  had,  roughly  speaking, 
one  million  casualties.  This  year  the  British 
Army  is  fighting  in  France,  Belgium,  Italy, 
Saloniki,  Palestine,  Mesopotamia,  the  Indian 
frontier,  and  East  Africa  ;  so  you  can  imagine 
the  clamour  for  reinforcements  that  is  going  on 
all  over  the  globe.  Thirdly,  the  French,  not  long 
ago,  asked  us  to  take  over  another  twenty-eight 
miles  of  line.  We  did  so  ;  with  the  result  that 
the  C.-in-C.  found  himself  in  the  position  of 
having  to  decide,  since  he  hadn't  enough  men  to 
hold  all  the  line  securely,  where  he  must  hold  on 
at  all  costs,  and  where  he  could  afford  to  take 


THE  LAST  THROW  319 

chances.  Obviously,  he  had  to  make  the  Straits 
of  Dover  impregnable  ;  so  the  northern  part  of 
the  line  got  the  lion's  share  of  troops.  Down 
here,  the  Fifth  Army  were  strung  out  to  a  beg- 
garly bayonet  per  yard.  North  of  them,  the 
Third  Army  had  about  three  bayonets  to  two 
yards.  Opposite  this  line,  during  the  past  few 
weeks,  the  Boche  was  known  to  have  accumulated 
a  force  averaging  seven  bayonets  per  yard  — " 
A  low  murmur  ran  round  the  crowded  little 
school-room.  It  was  fully  light  now,  and  we 
could  see  one  another's  startled  faces.  "  In  other 
words,  sixty  or  seventy  divisions.  Against  that 
force  we  had  available  twenty-two  divisions  in  the 
line,  with  twelve  infantry  divisions  and  three 
cavalry  divisions  in  reserve.  The  attack  opened 
six  days  ago.  The  Boches,  as  usual,  had  the 
Devil's  own  luck  with  the  weather — thick  mist 
—  and  were  on  us  in  a  solid  phalanx  before  we 
saw  them  at  all.  I  may  add  that  they  were  backed 
by  the  most  terrific  concentration  of  artillery  fire 
on  record,  and  raised  unexpected  Sheol  in  our 
back  areas  by  a  new  very  long  range  gas-shell. 
By  all  the  rules  they  ought  to  have  wiped  us  right 
out.  But  they  didn't.  We  were  bowled  over 
again  and  again  ;  but  we  always  managed  to 
re-form  some  sort  of  line  —  until  the  want  of 


320  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

reserves  began  to  tell,  and  brigades  and  divisions, 
thinned  out  to  nothing,  began  to  draw  in  upon 
themselves  and  leave  gaps  on  their  flanks.  The 
cavalry  worked  like  heroes  to  cover  the  intervals  ; 
but  they  couldn't  be  everywhere,  and  one  position 
after  another  was  outflanked  and  had  to  be  given 
up.  Noyon  has  gone ;  Peronne  has  gone ; 
Monchy  has  gone  ;  the  whole  Somme  battle-field 
of  Nineteen-Sixteen  has  gone.  Even  Albert "  — 
there  came  a  groan  here  from  all  of  us  who  had 
fought  in  the  Somme  battle  —  "has  fallen  into 
Boche  hands.  Yes,  I  know  !  But  things  might 
be  worse.  Arras  is  holding  fast ;  and  the  good 
old  Vimy  Ridge  is  still  standing  right  up  to 
them.  It's  tolerably  certain  now  that  the  Boche 
was  booked  to  get  Amiens  in  three  days.  He 
hasn't  got  it ;  and  if  we  can  continue  to  make 
him  pay  his  present  price  he  will  never  get  it  at 
all." 

There  was  small  comfort  in  this.  The  very 
fact  that  Amiens  had  become  a  Boche  possibility 
was  a  staggerer  in  itself.  We  thought  of  the 
Hotel  du  Rhin,  and  other  haunts  of  ancient  peace, 
and  sighed. 

"  How  is  morale  ? "  asked  the  C.R.A. 

The  General  held  up  a  paper. 

"  Here  is  the  Commander-in-Chief 's  latest  dis- 
patch," he  said.  "Listen  to  this,  gentlemen  !" 


THE  LAST  THROW  321 

At  no  time  was  there  anything  approaching  a  break- 
down of  command  or  a  failure  of  morale.  Under  con- 
ditions that  made  rest  and  sleep  impossible  for  days 
together,  officers  and  men  remained  undismayed,  real- 
ising that  for  the  time  being  they  must  play  a  waiting 
game,  and  determined  to  make  the  enemy  pay  the  full 
price  for  the  advantage  which,  for  the  moment,  was  his. 

We  broke  into  applause.    We  could  not  help  it. 

"Naturally,"  continued  the  General,  "the 
strain  has  been  awful,  because  we  are  employing 
tired  men,  fighting  without  reinforcements 
against  ever  fresh  bodies  of  troops.  However, 
more  divisions  are  coming  down  from  the  north  — 
you  are  one  of  the  first  arrivals  —  and  Foch  has 
taken  supreme  command,  which  means  that  here- 
after the  Allied  forces  will  be  more  evenly  dis- 
tributed and  the  line  stabilised.  The  long  and 
short  of  it  all  is  that  the  enemy  has  been  frus- 
trated, for  the  time  being,  in  his  amiable  attempt 
to  drive  a  wedge  between  the  British  and  French 
armies." 

"  Still,"  said  the  voice  of  the  C.R.A.,  "  I  sup- 
pose the  situation  is  pretty  critical  ? " 

"  Critical  isn't  the  word  !  But  the  line  is  still 
intact,  though  badly  bent,  and  we  have  beaten  all 
our  previous  records  for  Boche-killing,  which  is 
saying  something.  And  if  they  fail  to  break 


322  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

through  —  good-bye  Germany  !  It's  their  last 
throw.  A  German  who  knows  he  cannot  win  is  a 
German  beaten.  Now,  gentlemen,  you  will 
understand  why  it  is  that  you  cannot  go  into 
retirement  at  present.  That's  all,  I  think  !  To 
your  tents,  O  Israel  —  and  breakfast !  But  be 
ready  to  move  at  an  hour's  notice." 

Roy  and  I  jogged  wearily  back  across  country 
to  the  field  where  the  men  were  bivouacking. 
Roy  was  my  senior  company  commander,  and  I 
had  brought  him  to  the  meeting  in  preference  to 
the  adjutant,  who  was  very  young  and  already 
bowed  down  with  regimental  routine.  Roy,  a 
seasoned  Ironside  of  twenty-two,  with  two-and- 
a-half  years  continuous  active  service  to  his 
record,  was  now  my  shield  and  buckler  and  right- 
hand  man. 

We  had  little  to  say  to  one  another.  We  were 
both  dog-tired,  and  were  suffering  in  addition 
from  that  unpleasant  form  of  reaction  which 
comes  from  hope  deferred.  We  were  thinking, 
too,  of  the  men.  They  had  completed  four 
months  of  exhausting  and  expensive  trench  duty, 
working  by  "  internal  reliefs,"  which  really  means 
no  relief  at  all ;  each  man  staying  his  dour 
dogged  heart  with  the  only  two  consolations 


THE  LAST  THROW  323 

available  in  those  days  —  the  humdrum  certainty 
of  ultimate  relief  by  another  division,  and  the 
ever  present  possibility  of  a  "Blighty"  wound. 
And  now,  when  they  had  actually  packed  up  and 
removed  out  of  the  shell  area,  with  a  spell  of  rest 
and  relaxation  well  within  their  grasp,  they  found 
themselves  pulled  back  into  the  line.  That  sort 
of  experience  is  a  severer  test  of  morale  than  an 
intensive  bombardment.  The  danger  was  that 
they  might  go  stale — just  as  I  had  once  seen  a 
highly-trained  college  crew  go,  when  the  races 
were  postponed  for  a  week  owing  to  ice  on  the 
river. 

"  We  will  call  a  pow-wow  when  we  get  back," 
I  said  to  Roy,  "and  tell  the  officers  to  explain 
matters  to  the  men  as  well  as  they  can.  They 
must  sing  the  usual  song  about  our  trusty  old 
indispensable  Division,  the  prop  and  stay  of  the 
weaker  brethren,  proudly  filling  the  breach  and 
saving  the  situation,  and  so  forth." 

"They'll  respond  all  right,"  said  Roy  con- 
fidently. "  They  are  a  wonderful  crowd." 

"  They  certainly  are  ;  but  it  will  break  their 
hearts  if  they  are  shoved  back  for  another  spell 
of  trench  duty.  Of  course,  if  we  go  right  into 
the  scrap,  with  a  fair  chance  to  get  above  ground 
and  grab  the  Boche  by  the  ears,  they  won't  mind 


824  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

at  all — quite  the  reverse.  It  will  be  a  perfect 
tonic." 

"If  half  of  what  His  Nibs  said  is  true,  they'll 
get  all  the  tonic  they  want ! "  remarked  my  sage 
young  companion.  "  We're  for  it,  this  time  ! " 

He  was  right.  Even  at  that  moment  our  task 
had  been  assigned  to  us  ;  for  when  we  reached 
Battalion  Headquarters  —  a  G.S.  waggon  in  the 
corner  of  a  field,  in  the  middle  of  which  certain 
incurable  greathearts  were  playing  football — we 
found  that  the  telephone  had  outstripped  us,  and 
that  our  orders  were  waiting. 

We  gobbled  breakfast,  with  that  curious  ming- 
ling of  sentiment  and  satisfaction  which  comes 
to  men  who  are  not  sure  if  they  will  ever  see  a 
poached  egg  again.  Then  I  summoned  my  offi- 
cers. I  passed  on  to  them  the  substance  of  the 
General's  statement,  and  spoke  of  the  gaps  that 
were  being  created  in  the  line  by  lack  of  rein- 
forcements. 

"Such  a  gap,"  I  explained,  "has  occurred 
almost  directly  in  front  of  us,  along  the  crest  of 
a  low  ridge  called  Primrose  Hill.  ( The  Ad j  utant 
will  give  you  the  map  reference  in  a  minute.) 
The  gap  is  being  filled  at  present  by  a  rather  raw 
battalion  of  newly-arrived  Territorials,  rushed 
up  from  Corps  Reserve.  It  is  a  very  important 


THE  LAST  THROW  325 

point,  and  we  are  to  go  in  and  stiffen  them. 
Written  orders  will  be  issued  to  you  immediately ; 
but  it  may  save  time  if  I  mention  that  I  propose 
to  march  the  battalion  direct  to  the  back  of 
Primrose  Hill,  deploy,  and  advance  in  lines  of 
companies  until  we  strike  the  trench  system 
which  the  Royal  Loyals  are  holding.  In  that 
way  we  ought  to  be  able  to  plug  any  possible  gap 
in  the  shortest  possible  time.  We  may  have 
to  advance  through  a  barrage  ;  but  that,  of 
course,  is  all  in  the  day's  work.  Company  com- 
manders will  take  such  precautions  as  are  possible 
to  ensure  the  safety  of  their  men,  but  they  must 
not  waste  time  on  this  occasion  looking  for  cov- 
ered lines  of  advance.  In  other  words,  the 
situation  is  critical,  and  must  be  tackled  bald- 
headed.  The  point  of  deployment,  as  at  present 
fixed,  is  a  blacksmith's  forge  on  the  road  running 
direct  from  here  to  Primrose  Hill.  It  is  marked 
in  the  map,  Michelin  Forge  ;  there's  a  big  motor- 
tyre  advertisement  on  the  western  gable,  the 
Brigade  Major  tells  me.  I  shall  go  there  now 
myself,  and  establish  temporary  headquarters. 
Companies  will  move  off  independently  in  suc- 
cession, A  Company  leading.  Company  com- 
manders will  report  at  Michelin  Forge  for 
further  instructions.  Later,  after  we  have 


326  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

deployed  and  advanced  up  the  reverse  slope  of 
Primrose  Hill  —  it  is  a  mere  swelling  in  the 
ground,  as  a  matter  of  fact  —  Battalion  Head- 
quarters will  be  established,  if  possible,  in  a  point 
d'appui  just  behind  the  crest,  called  Fountain 
Keep.  It  is  a  ruined  ornamental  garden,  I 
believe,  with  the  wreck  of  a  fountain  in  the 
middle.  I  hope  you'll  all  arrive  there  in  due 
course  —  and  find  me  there  !  That's  all !  Good 
luck  to  you  ! " 

My  officers  saluted  in  a  manner  that  warmed 
my  heart,  and  hurried  off  to  their  duties.  I  felt 
sorry  I  had  not  been  able  to  give  them  a  more 
stirring  harangue  :  I  felt  sure  that  Eric  would 
have  done  so.  Still,  harangue  or  no  harangue,  I 
knew  they  would  lead  their  men  to  the  crest  of 
Primrose  Hill.  I  looked  after  them  affectionately. 
Most  of  them  I  never  saw  again  from  that  hour. 
But  I  remember  them  all  to-day  —  their  faces, 
their  voices,  their  characteristics.  They  were  of 
many  types — the  variegated  types  of  a  whole 
nation  at  last  in  arms.  There  were  Public  School 
and  Sandhurst  products,  like  Roy  ;  there  were 
promoted  rankers,  with  permanently  squared 
shoulders  and  little  waxed  moustaches ;  there  were 
professional  and  business  men  verging  on  middle- 
age,  who  had  long  shed  their  stomachs  and 


THE  LAST  THROW  327 

acquired  a  genuine  passion  for  army  forms  and 
regimental  routine.  The  last  two  figures  that 
caught  my  eye  were  those  of  my  machine-gun 
officer,  a  Mathematical  Fellow  of  an  ancient 
Cambridge  college,  and  Adams,  second-in-com- 
mand of  B  Company,  who  in  a  previous  existence 
had  officiated  as  under  gate-porter  in  the  same 
foundation.  The  British  Army  in  those  days 
was  one  great  ladder,  up  which  all  men,  gentle 
or  simple,  might  climb  if  they  had  the  character 
and  the  will.  In  that  army  at  the  end  of  the  war 
there  was  a  Divisional  General  who  had  been 
editor  of  a  newspaper  ;  there  was  a  Brigadier- 
General  who  had  been  a  taxi-cab  driver  ;  another 
who  had  been  a  school-teacher.  Numbered  among 
that  exclusive  hierarchy,  the  General  Staff,  were 
an  insurance  clerk,  an  architect's  assistant,  and 
a  college  cook.  A  coal  miner,  a  railway  signal- 
man, a  market  gardener,  and  countless  promoted 
private  soldiers  commanded  battalions. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  rode  off  with  my  adju- 
tant, young  Hume-Logan,  in  the  direction  of 
Michelin  Forge.  My  faithful  orderly  —  a  gigan- 
tic, inarticulate  Lowland  hind  named  Herriott  — 
jogged  along  in  rear  of  us.  It  was  a  distressing 
ride.  A  badly  mangled  terrain,  restored  to 
France  and  cultivation  by  Hindenburg's  operatic 


328  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

retirement  to  the  Siegfried  line,  was  being  over- 
run once  more  :  and  the  plucky,  industrious 
peasant  population,  which  had  been  so  busily 
employed  for  the  past  twelve  months  in  re- 
building their  villages  and  re-ploughing  their 
emancipated  soil  behind  the  traditionally  sure 
shield  of  a  British  trench  line,  found  itself  up- 
rooted and  cast  forth  for  the  second  time.  The 
panic-stricken  flood  of  refugees  had  now  sub- 
sided ;  but  along  the  road  we  encountered  sights 
which  wrung  the  heart  and  tweaked  the  con- 
science—  here,  a  pitiful  little  cart  loaded  with 
worldly  possessions  which  hardly  seemed  worth 
salving  ;  there,  a  tired  woman  struggling  along 
a  muddy  roadside  with  her  children 

Respiciens  frustra  rura  laresque  sua 

— as  Ovid  used  to  say  in  the  Repetition  Book. 
I  felt  somehow,  perhaps  unjustifiably,  but  none 
the  less  poignantly,  that  for  once  the  British 
Army  had  failed  in  a  trust. 

But  presently  I  saw  something  which  inspired 
me.  Down  the  road  came  a  big  elderly  peasant 
woman  wheeling  a  barrow,  piled  high  with  house- 
hold furniture.  (You  have  to  invade  French 
peasant  territory  very  suddenly  and  very  early 
in  the  morning  indeed,  if  you  expect  to  find  so 


THE  LAST  THROW  329 

much  as  an  orange-box  left  to  sit  down  upon.) 
We  looked  down  on  the  barrow  as  it  passed. 

"  She  doesn't  seem  to  have  forgotten  anything, 
sir,"  observed  Master  Hume-Logan. 

I  gave  Madame  a  respectful  salute  as  we  rode 
past.  Her  hard  features  never  relaxed.  Instead, 
she  set  down  her  barrow  by  the  roadside,  turned 
round,  and  started  back  in  the  same  direction  as 
ourselves :  in  fact,  she  outstripped  our  two  horses, 
which  were  walking  delicately  amid  the  puddles. 

"  She  seems  to  have  forgotten  something,  after 
all,"  I  said. 

But  I  was  wrong.  She  had  forgotten  nothing. 
Two  hundred  yards  along  the  road  stood  another 
wheelbarrow.  In  it  —  mute,  helpless,  patient — 
lay  a  very  old  man.  The  old  woman  seized  the 
shafts  of  this  barrow  and  began  to  wheel  it  after 
the  first.  In  so  doing  she  met  us  again  —  and 
again  I  saluted  her.  We  turned  in  our  saddles 
and  looked  after  her.  At  her  original  halting- 
place  she  deposited  the  second  barrow  as  close  to 
the  side  of  the  road  as  possible,  turned  again  to 
the  first,  and  trundled  it  forward,  without  a 
moment's  rest,  another  hundred  yards  or  so. 
When  last  we  saw  her  she  was  coming  back  — 
grim,  resolute,  invincible  —  for  the  old  man.  She 
was  France  —  La  Patrie,  incarnate  ! 


330  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

At  last  we  penetrated  beyond  what  we  may 
call  the  refugee  zone,  and  arrived  at  Michelin 
Forge.  There  was  little  of  it  left  save  the  western 
gable,  which  was  still  decorated  by  a  tattered 
presentment  of  two  pre-war  friends,  the  Biben- 
dum  Twins.  The  low  ridge  of  Primrose  Hill 
defined  the  horizon  about  a  mile  or  two  ahead  of 
us.  It  was  nothing  of  a  hill ;  it  looked  no  higher 
than  its  namesake  in  distant  "N.W."  A  quarter- 
of-a-mile  away  from  us  enemy  shells  were  falling 
with  Teutonic  regularity  of  interval  into  a  group 
of  poor  houses,  clustered  round  a  cross-roads. 
Over  the  ridge  itself  shrapnel  was  bursting  inter- 
mittently. Away  to  our  left  a  large  canteen  hut 
was  burning  fiercely :  probably  it  had  been  cleared 
and  set  alight  to  save  it  from  falling  into  enemy 
hands.  To  the  right  of  the  forge  a  battery  of 
our  Four-point-Five  Howitzers  was  firing  salvoes 
—  securely  dug  in,  and  screened  from  aeroplane 
view  by  nets  interwoven  with  leaves  and  twigs. 
When,  to  the  great  content  of  our  horses,  this 
performance  ceased,  I  rode  over  and  sought  out 
the  young  officer  in  command.  He  had  not  shaved 
for  a  week,  and  his  quite  creditable  beard  was 
encrusted  with  mud. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  can  tell  you  a  little. 
The  enemy  are  in  force  just  beyond  that  low 


THE  LAST  THROW  331 

ridge  —  Primrose  Hill.  We  are  strafing  them 
now.  Our  F.O.O.  is  somewhere  in  Fountain 
Keep,  which  is  a  strong  point  just  behind  the 
crest,  with  one  or  two  observation  posts  stretching 
over  it.  He  has  direct  observation  ;  his  last 
telephone-message  said  that  the  enemy  were 
massing  again  behind  their  own  second  line.  I 
haven't  heard  from  him  since  :  that's  why  I 
stopped  firing.  Something  gone  wrong  with  the 
works,  I  expect." 

"  What 's  the  distance  from  here  to  the  ridge  ? " 
I  asked. 

"  Well,  we  are  firing  at  a  range  of  four  thou- 
sand three  hundred  ;  but  that,  of  course,  reaches 
Boche  territory.  The  range  to  the  crest  is  about 
three  thousand  five  hundred." 

"  I  see  ;  a  brisk  country  walk  of  about  two 
miles  ?  I  shall  deploy  here.  Has  the  Boche  been 
shelling  the  reverse  slope  of  the  hill  at  all  ? " 

"  Not  lately.  But  yesterday  afternoon,  during 
a  big  attack,  he  put  down  a  heavy  barrage  from 
end  to  end  of  it." 

"  Hum  I  That  means  that  when  he  attacks 
again  he  will  put  down  another  heavy  barrage. 
The  sooner  we  get  to  the  crest  of  that  hill  the 
better." 

I  was  turning  away,  when  the  gunner  said  : 


832  THE  WILLING  HORSE    . 

"  There's  a  sunken  road  over  there,  sir,  behind 
that  hedge.  It  runs  straight  towards  Primrose 
Hill  for  nearly  a  mile,  and  ends  where  the  gra- 
dient really  begins.  If  you  followed  that  you 
could  get  shelter  for  a  bit,  and  need  not  take  open 
order  quite  so  soon." 

"  That's  good  advice,''  I  said.  "  I  will  have  a 
look  at  it.  Is  there  much  going  on  in  the  air  at 
present  ? " 

"  They  set  one  of  our  sausage-balloons  on  fire 
early  this  morning.  The  observer  got  down  all 
right  in  his  parachute  ;  but  I  fancy  the  heavies 
behind  us  are  a  bit  in  the  dark  about  things,  in 
consequence." 

"  How  are  the  gas-works  ? " 

"They  put  mustard  down  with  their  last 
barrage." 

"Any  aeroplanes  been  over  ?" 

"  One  Boche  machine  came  over  at  dawn,  but 
our  Archies  hunted  him  back.  This  battery 
hasn't  been  spotted  so  far  ;  but  I  expect  we 
shall  have  to  limber  up  and  do  another  Hinden- 
burg  act  presently  ;  we  have  been  doing  nothing 
else  for  a  week.  A  fortnight  ago  we  were  in  rest 
billets  about  here,  running  about  and  playing 
football  and  going  to  the  pictures  !  It's  a  bit 
thick  ! "  he  grunted  ruefully,  through  his  mask  of 
dirt. 


THE  LAST  THROW  333 

"  We  are  to  go  in  and  stiffen  the  line  ahead  of 
us,"  I  said.  "  You  stay  where  you  are,  and  back 
us  1  Here's  my  leading  company  coming  up 
now.  Good-morning ! " 

"  Good-morning,  sir,  and  good  luck  1 " 

The  gunner  hurried  back  to  his  camouflaged 
emplacements,  and  I  turned  to  find  Roy  at  my 
elbow. 

"A  message  came  through  from  brigade,  sir," 
he  said,  "just  after  you  left,  to  say  that  the 
enemy  were  massing  heavily  opposite  Primrose 
Hill,  and  that  we  were  to  get  up  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 

"  Right !  Let  us  have  a  look  at  a  covered 
approach  I  have  just  heard  about." 

We  crossed  a  meadow  and  looked  over  a  hedge. 
Sure  enough,  at  our  very  feet  lay  a  deep  cutting, 
following  the  line  of  the  hedge  towards  Primrose 
Hill. 

"  Bring  your  company  over  here,"  I  said,  "  and 
start  them  up  this  thoroughfare  for  all  they're 
worth.  Have  the  signallers  arrived  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;    they  came  with  me." 

"  Tell  the  signal  sergeant  to  establish  telephone 
communication  with  Brigade  Headquarters  as 
quickly  as  he  can."  I  turned  to  that  faithful 
shadow,  my  adjutant.  "  Notify  the  other  com- 


334          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

panics  as  they  arrive — to  this  effect."  I  scribbled 
an  order.  "  Explain  to  Major  Wylie  "  —  Major 
Wylie  was  my  second  in  command  —  "that  I 
have  gone  ahead  with  A  Company.  He  will  take 
charge  of  affairs  here  and  maintain  communica- 
tion as  far  as  possible  from  front  to  rear.  Is  that 
quite  clear  ? " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Good  !  Ah  !  here  is  Captain  Birnie,  with  A 
Company.  Now,  Roy,  young  fellow-my-lad, 
what  about  it  ? " 

Five  minutes  later  Roy  and  I  were  heading  up 
the  sunken  lane,  followed  by  A  Company,  with 
steel  helmets  adjusted  and  gas-masks  at  the 
ready. 

"  By  rights,"  I  grunted,  "  I  suppose  I  ought 
to  be  sitting  in  Michelin  Forge  maintaining  touch 
with  Brigade  Headquarters.  But  I  think  this  is 
going  to  be  one  of  those  occasions  upon  which  a 
C.O.  is  justified  in  leading  his  regiment  from  the 
front.  I  am  fed  up  with  this  Duke  of  Plaza  Toro 
business." 

Roy  did  not  reply.  He  struck  me  as  a  little 
distrait,  which  did  not  altogether  surprise  me, 
considering  that  we  were  both  going,  in  all  pro- 
bability, straight  to  an  early  demise.  In  fact, 


THE  LAST  THROW  335 

I  was  feeling  a  little  distrait  myself.  But  this 
was  no  time  for  preoccupation.  Progress  along 
the  lane  was  not  too  easy.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  traffic  coming  the  other  way — stragglers, 
stretcher-cases,  walking  wounded,  and  dispatch- 
riders  urging  their  reluctant  motor-cycles  through 
a  river  of  mud.  Phlegmatic  cave-dwellers  in 
dug-outs  in  the  banks  of  the  lane,  mainly  signal- 
lers, looked  out  upon  us,  exchanging  grisly  jests 
with  my  followers.  Sappers,  imperturbable  as 
ever,  were  running  out  wire  across  an  open  space 
to  the  right.  A  water-party  met  us,  jangling 
empty  petrol-cans.  At  one  point  we  passed  a 
row  of  our  dead,  awaiting  removal.  On  nearly 
every  sleeve  I  noticed  one,  two,  or  even  three  gold 
stripes.  It  seemed  desperately  hard  that  The 
Willing  Horse,  healed  three  times  of  his  wounds, 
should  have  gone  down  for  good  so  near  the  end 
—  as  the  event  proved  it  to  be — when  others  had 
never  left  the  stable. 

Presently  we  overtook  a  slow-moving  pro- 
cession, advancing  with  that  injured  bearing  and 
gait  which  mark  Thomas  Atkins  when  employed 
upon  an  uncongenial  job.  They  were  a  fatigue 
party,  carrying  enormous  trench-mortar  bombs. 

"  We  can  never  get  past  this  crowd,"  I  said  to 
Roy.  "  We'll  climb  out  here,  and  deploy  to  the 
left." 


336  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Roy  gave  the  order,  and  soon  A  Company  were 
advancing  in  extended  formation  with  their  faces 
set  towards  Fountain  Keep.  Roy  and  I  tramped 
ahead  of  them  :  the  ridge  of  Primrose  Hill  was 
barely  a  thousand  yards  away  now.  The  morning 
mists  had  cleared  away,  and  we  could  see  it  quite 
distinctly. 

Suddenly  Roy  turned  to  me. 

"Uncle  Alan,"  he  began  — 

But  he  got  no  further.  There  came  a  roar 
and  a  shock  that  shook  the  ground.  Five  hun- 
dred yards  ahead  of  us  the  brown  face  of  Primrose 
Hill  broke  into  a  spouting  row  of  earth-fountains, 
intermingled  with  the  smoke  of  shrapnel  and 
whizz-bangs.  The  evening's  barrage  had  begun. 
The  line  of  men  behind  us  recoiled  for  a  moment, 
then  pressed  stolidly  forward. 

"We  have  got  to  get  through  that,"  I  an- 
nounced —  a  little  superfluously. 

Roy  replied — somewhat  unexpectedly — right 
in  my  left  ear,  at  the  top  of  his  voice  : 

"Uncle  Alan,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
married  ! " 

"  So  I  have  been  given  to  understand  ! "  I 
bellowed.  The  din  was  growing  louder. 

"  Who  told  you  ?    Old  Eskerley  ? " 

I  nodded  ;    halted  ;    and  sniffed  the  air, 


THE  LAST  THROW  337 

"I  thought  so,"  I  said.  "Gas-masks,  Roy  — 
quick ! " 

Roy  turned  and  waved  an  order  to  his  company. 
In  a  few  seconds  we  were  advancing  again  :  each 
man  had  transformed  God's  image  into  a  goggled 
deformity,  and  was  breathing  God's  air  from  a 
box  of  chemicals  through  a  jointed  tube. 

Roy  and  I  adjusted  our  masks  last. 

"  Come  along,"  I  said,  with  a  glance  ahead  of 
us  :  "  the  longer  we  look  at  it  the  less  we  shall 
like  it ! "  I  tried  to  fit  my  mask  to  my  face,  but 
found  that  Roy  was  shouting  into  my  ear  again. 

"Uncle  Alan  —  " 

I  inclined  my  head  towards  him. 

"Well?" 

" I  am  a  father!" 

I  nodded  my  hideous  head,  and  smiled  con- 
gratulations as  well  as  I  could. 

"  I  only  got  word  this  morning,"  I  heard  him 
bawl  as  his  face  disappeared  into  his  mask. 
"  BOY  ! "  And  with  that  he  led  his  company  into 
the  barrage. 

I  felt  convinced  if  we  got  through  it  Roy  would 
tell  the  first  German  he  met  about  the  baby. 


CHAPTER  XX 

FOUNTAIN    KEEP 

OF  the  next  half -hour  my  recollection  is  merci- 
fully blurred.  All  that  I  know  is  that  most  of  us 
got  through  the  barrage  and  foregathered  at  the 
back  of  Fountain  Keep,  which  proved  to  be  a 
circular  point  d'appui  intersected  and  honey- 
combed with  trenches,  saps  and  tunnels. 

"  Carry  right  on  with  the  company,"  I  said  to 
Roy.  "  I  think  you  will  find  some  hand-to-hand 
work  going  on  just  over  the  ridge  ;  so  your  men 
will  be  welcome.  I  will  try  to  find  the  Headquar- 
ters of  the  Royal  Loyals.  Take  care  of  yourself, 
laddie!" 

Our  gas-masks  were  off  again  by  this  time,  so 
we  could  smile  at  one  another  as  we  parted. 

Ultimately  Herriott  and  I  discovered  the 
Headquarters  of  the  Fifth  Royal  Loyals  —  a 
dug-out  at  the  back  of  the  Keep,  occupied  by  a 
slightly  hysterical  second  lieutenant  (apparently 
the  adjutant)  and  a  telephone  orderly  vainly 
trying  to  make  connection  with  a  Brigade  Head- 
quarters which  we  learned  afterwards  had  been 
shelled  out  of  existence  twenty  minutes  before. 


FOUNTAIN  KEEP  339 

"  The  battalion  are  cut  to  pieces,  sir,"  gasped 
the  second  lieutenant.  "  They  are  fighting  more 
or  less  in  the  open.  .  .  .  There  are  hardly  any 
trenches.  .  .  .  The  C.O.  was  killed  half  an  hour 
ago.  .  .  .  Most  of  the  company  commanders 
have  been  scuppered  too.  The  line's  broken  in 
two  or  three  places,  and  we  are  fighting  in  small 
groups.  ,  .  .  They  are  putting  up  a  wonderful 
kick.  .  .  .  But  there's  hardly  anybody  left 
...  no  platoon  commanders  or  anything.  I 
seem  to  be  in  command  of  the  battalion  ! "  He 
giggled,  foolishly.  "  I  came  back  here  to  try  and 
telephone  for  help.  .  .  .  All  the  numbers  seem 
to  be  engaged,  though  ! "  He  began  to  sob.  He 
looked  barely  twenty. 

"That's  all  right,"  I  said.  "I  have  sent  a 
company  of  my  Jocks  to  stiffen  your  front  line, 
and  three  more  are  coming  up.  Here,  take  a 
pull  at  my  flask,  and  then  show  me  the  way 
through  this  Keep  of  yours  !  Looks  like  the 
Maze  at  Hampton  Court,  doesn't  it  ?  We  must 
hold  on  to  it  whatever  happens  :  it's  the  key  to 
the  whole  business.  Who's  in  command  up  in 
front,  by  the  way  ? " 

"A  corporal,  I  think." 

"A  corporal  ?  Come  along  !  The  sooner  we 
reinforce  him  the  better." 


340  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

But  the  boy  was  too  badly  shell-shocked  to 
guide  me,  so  Herriott  and  I  went  on  alone.  We 
plunged  into  the  depths  of  the  Keep,  and  followed 
its  deep  mazes  as  best  we  could.  Here  and  there 
I  noticed  traces  of  the  ornamental  garden.  We 
passed  by  the  wrecked  fountain,  with  a  broken 
stucco  figure  lying  across  its  basin.  Once  our 
road  took  us  through  an  artificial  rockery,  re- 
inforced with  sandbags.  The  trenches  were  deep, 
and  we  could  see  nothing  but  the  sky  above  our 
heads.  Everywhere  was  the  old  familiar  reek 
—  humanity  and  chloride  of  lime.  The  noise  was 
terrific  now.  Our  own  shells  were  whistling  over 
our  heads  :  evidently  my  grimy  friend  with  the 
four-point-fives  had  got  to  work  again.  Enemy 
artillery  was  silent,  probably  through  fear  of 
hitting  its  own  men  ;  but  bombs  and  trench- 
mortars  were  busy. 

The  windings  of  the  Keep  were  tortuous,  and 
we  wandered  more  or  less  at  random,  stepping 
here  and  there  over  some  obstruction  —  an  aban- 
doned case  of  ammunition,  or  a  dead  soldier. 
Suddenly  we  emerged  into  what  was  obviously  a 
firing-trench.  It  was  lined  with  men,  mounted 
on  the  step  and  maintaining  a  steady  fusillade. 
From  their  deliberate  movements  I  saw  that  they 
were  fighting  well  within  themselves.  Some  were 


FOUNTAIN  KEEP  341 

Roy's  men,  others  members  of  that  sturdy  Terri- 
torial unit,  the  Fifth  Royal  Loyals.  There  were 
other  details  —  cyclists,  signallers,  Labour  Corps 
men  —  all  contributing.  Evidently  some  organ- 
ising influence  had  been  at  work.  A  few  yards 
along  the  trench  to  the  right  I  observed  a  sort  of 
projection,  or  bastion,  in  which  a  Lewis  gun  team 
were  maintaining  enfilade  fire  along  the  wire  to 
their  own  right. 

Realising  that  I  had  reached  the  forward  edge 
of  Fountain  Keep,  I  was  about  to  hoist  myself 
on  to  the  firing  step  in  order  to  see  what  was 
happening  on  the  other  side  of  the  parapet,  when 
my  attention  was  attracted  to  the  man  who 
appeared  to  be  in  general  charge  of  the  sector.  It 
was  difficult  to  discern  his  rank,  for  he  was  in 
his  shirt  sleeves,  like  many  of  his  comrades. 
(Tommy  Atkins  has  a  passion  for  deshabille.} 
Obviously  he  was  not  an  officer,  for  he  wore  the 
unresthetic  boots  and  grey  flannel  shirt  of  the 
rank-and-file.  His  steel  helmet  had  fallen  off, 
and  I  could  see  that  his  hair  was  quite  grey.  His 
face,  like  those  of  most  present,  was  framed  in  a 
six  days'  beard,  with  a  top-dressing  of  dirt  ;  but 
he  was  an  undoubted  leader  of  men.  When  first 
I  saw  him  he  was  directing  the  Lewis  gun  team. 
Presently  he  came  down  the  trench  towards  me, 


342  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

throwing  up  fresh  clips  of  ammunition  and  shout- 
ing encouragement  to  the  men  on  the  firing-step 
—  though  in  that  hellish  din  I  doubt  if  they  heard 
much  of  what  he  said. 

He  passed  the  mouth  of  the  communication 
trench  in  which  I  was  standing  without  noticing 
me,  and  disappeared  round  a  traverse  on  the  left, 
evidently  on  his  way  to  stiffen  morale  in  the  next 
bay.  I  found  myself  gazing  after  him  with  an 
interest  for  which  I  could  not  quite  account. 
Probably  he  was  the  corporal  of  whom  the  shell- 
shocked  boy  behind  us  had  spoken.  .  .  »  ,, 

I  became  suddenly  conscious  that  Herriott  was 
stiffening  to  attention.  This  meant  that  Herriott 
desired  permission  to  deliver  himself  of  a  remark. 

"Well,  Herriott?"  I  said. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sirr  —  " 

"Yes?    What?" 

"Yon,  sirr,  is  —  " 

At  that  moment  a  German  trench-mortar 
bomb  came  sailing  over,  and  burst  some  thirty 
yards  to  our  left.  Fortunately  our  bay  was 
screened  from  the  effects  by  a  stout  island-tra- 
verse. However,  I  fear  I  missed  the  purport  of 
Herriott's  statement.  In  fact,  I  doubt  if  I  heard 
it  at  all,  for  at  that  moment  Roy  appeared  round 
the  corner  on  the  right,  followed  by  an  orderly. 


FOUNTAIN  KEEP  343 

He  was  bleeding  from  a  scratch  on  the  cheek,  and 
held  his  Colt  automatic  in  his  hand. 

"  We  have  just  pushed  them  back  on  the  right, 
sir,"  he  announced.  His  eyes  were  blazing. 
"  They  tried  to  rush  a  bad  bit  of  our  line  about  a 
hundred  yards  along  ;  but  our  boys  were  splen- 
did, and  very  few  Boches  got  as  far  as  the  parapet. 
They  simply  withered  up  when  they  got  to  the 
wire." 

I  pointed  to  the  bastion,  where  the  Lewis 
gunners  were  recharging  magazines. 

"  Those  are  the  fellows  you  have  to  thank,"  I 
said.  "  How  is  the  situation  generally  ? " 

"  The  Boche  has  gone  back  everywhere,  for  the 
moment,"  Roy  replied.  "  I  fancy  he  will  give  us 
a  dose  of  trench-mortars  and  H.E.,  and  then  try 
again.  I  am  going  along  the  line  now,  to  see  if 
all  the  men  are  in  place." 

"You  will  find  a  very  efficient  understudy 
round  that  traverse,"  I  said — "a  corporal.  I 
found  him  handling  this  bit  of  line  like  a  field- 
marshal." 

Again  I  was  aware  of  the  dour  presence  of 
Harriott  at  my  elbow. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sirr — "  he  began  again. 

Again  the  words  were  taken  out  of  his  mouth. 
Round  the  corner  of  the  traverse  to  our  left 


344  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

struggled  a  pitifully  familiar  group  —  two  stoop- 
ing men  supporting  a  third  between  them.  The 
wounded  man  held  an  arm  resolutely  round  the 
neck  of  each  supporter,  but  his  feet  dragged  in 
the  mud.  It  was  the  grey-headed  corporal. 

"Stretcher-bearers,  there  ! "  cried  one  of  the 
men  gruffly. 

"  How  did  they  cop  you,  Corporal  ? "  inquired 
a  Royal  Loyal,  leaning  down  sympathetically 
from  the  firing-step. 

"  That  last  trench-mortar  ! "  gasped  the  grey- 
haired  man,  as  they  set  him  down  on  the  floor  of 
the  trench,  just  below  the  Lewis  gun  emplace- 
ment. He  turned  his  head  feebly  in  our  direction, 
and  our  eyes  met  for  the  first  time.  At  the  same 
moment  Roy  gave  a  cry  and  started  forward. 

Then  I  understood  what  Herriott  had  been 
trying  to  tell  me.  Tom  Birnie  lay  dying  before 
our  eyes  —  at  the  feet  of  his  own  son. 

Roy,  very  white,  dropped  on  his  knees  beside 
his  father.  A  stretcher  came,  and  we  did  what 
we  could.  Tom  had  a  dreadful  wound  in  his  side  ; 
plainly  it  was  only  a  matter  of  minutes.  I  re- 
member seeing  Roy  unbuckle  his  own  equipment, 
take  off  his  tunic,  and  wrap  it  round  his  father's 
shoulders.  Tom's  eyes  were  closed ;  his  breathing 
was  laboured  ;  he  recognised  no  one. 


FOUNTAIN  KEEP  345 

For  a  moment  the  tempest  of  battle  around  us 
seemed  to  stand  still.  The  crowded  trench  was 
silent ;  the  men  on  the  firing-step  looked  down 
curiously.  Roy  still  knelt  beside  his  father, 
motionless.  Herriott,  who  had  worked  on  the 
Baronrigg  estate  ever  since  he  could  walk,  stood 
rigidly  at  attention  at  the  foot  of  the  Laird's 
stretcher,  with  tears  trickling  down  his  cheeks. 

At  last  Tom's  eyes  opened.  He  smiled  and 
said  faintly  : 

"  That  you,  Roy  ?  Good  boy  !  I  was  expect- 
ing you.  ...  I  carried  on  as  well  as  I  could, 
until  you  came  to  take  over.  ...  I  knew  you 
would  come.  ...  I  knew  !  Give  your  father 
a  kiss,  old  man." 

Roy  bowed  his  head.    .    .    . 

Next  moment,  with  the  shriek  of  an  express 
train  emerging  from  a  tunnel,  a  German  shell 
whirled  out  of  the  blue  and  exploded  against  the 
traverse  a  few  yards  away. 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  being  carried  in 
Harriott's  arms  —  and  I  weigh  nearly  fourteen 
stone — back  through  the  mazes  of  Fountain 
Keep  in  the  direction  of  the  first  aid  post.  After 
more  than  three  years  of  continuous  seeking  I  had 
achieved  the  soldier's  ambition  —  a  "blighty." 


346  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

That  night,  as  I  passed  on  my  jolting  way  to 
the  base,  with  a  smashed  collar-bone  and  a 
damaged  skull,  my  rambling  dreams  ran  natur- 
ally on  one  subject — that  strange  meeting  be- 
tween father  and  son  ;  and  the  spectacle  of  the 
one  passing  on  to  the  other,  as  it  were  some 
precious  inheritance,  the  safe  custody  of  Fountain 
Keep. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IDENTITIES 
I 

NIGHT  had  fallen  on  Fountain  Keep  ;  for  the 
moment  the  guns  were  silent  and  the  battle  had 
died  down.  To-morrow  the  Boche  would  come 
again  —  and  again.  But  he  would  get  no  farther. 
The  high-water  mark  of  the  great  spring  offensive 
of  Nineteen  Eighteen  had  been  reached  —  in  this 
region  at  any  rate,  though  none  knew  it.  To  the 
right  the  long,  attenuated  British  line  had  been 
pressed  back  to  the  village  of  Villers  Bretonneux, 
within  sight  of  Amiens  ;  the  Australians  were 
destined  to  do  historic  work  here  six  weeks  later, 
when  the  bundling-out  process  began.  On  the 
left,  before  Arras,  despite  massed  attacks  and 
reckless  expenditure  of  German  cannon-fodder, 
the  line  had  held  fast.  On  every  side,  for  the 
moment,  the  enemy  had  sullenly  withdrawn,  to 
lick  his  wounds.  He  would  try  again  later  on 
further  north,  in  the  flat  plain  of  the  sluggish  Lys 
—  only  to  create  a  second  spectacular  and  unten- 
able salient  in  the  British  line,  with  the  Vimy 
Ridge  standing  up  invincibly  between  the  two, 


348  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

like  a  great  rock  splitting  the  force  of  a  spring 
spate. 

Fountain  Keep  was  very  still  and  silent.  It 
lay  once  more  well  within  the  British  lines.  It 
had  been  captured  by  the  enemy  in  a  massed 
attack  at  three  o'clock  that  afternoon,  despite  the 
gallant  defence  put  up  by  A  Company  and  the 
great-hearted  remnants  of  the  Royal  Loyals  — 
to  be  recaptured  in  a  most  skilfully  directed 
counter-attack  just  before  nightfall  by  the  three 
remaining  companies  of  the  Royal  Covenanters. 
With  the  key  position  restored,  a  gallant  rally 
had  taken  place  all  along  the  line,  and  once  more 
the  whole  of  Primrose  Hill  was  in  British  hands. 

Out  in  front  weary  men  were  consolidating  the 
position  —  replacing  sandbags  and  running  out 
wire.  Fountain  Keep  itself,  lying  snugly  behind 
its  restored  trench-line,  had  resumed  its  proper 
function  of  point  d'appui  and  battalion  head- 
quarters. But  British  prestige  had  been  restored 
at  the  usual  prodigal  cost.  Stretcher-bearers  were 
everywhere,  stumbling  about  in  the  darkness 
from  shell-hole  to  shell-hole,  where  wounded  men 
usually  contrive  to  drag  themselves.  Many  of 
those  wounded  had  seen  khaki  puttees,  then 
German  field-boots,  then  khaki  puttees  pass  over 
their  heads  that  day. 


IDENTITIES  349 

They  were  nearly  all  collected  by  this  time  ; 
our  own  particular  Alan  Laing  had  passed 
through  the  field  dressing-station  hours  ago. 
Now  the  battle-ground  was  occupied  by  other 
search-parties,  whose  business  lay  with  those  who 
had  been  delivered  for  ever  from  the  pain  of 
wounds  and  the  weariness  of  convalescence. 

Such  a  party  was  at  this  moment  employing 
itself  in  Fountain  Keep,  under  the  direction  of  a 
conscientious  but  not  over-imaginative  sergeant, 
named  Busby. 

"We'll  go  along  the  front  parapet  first,"  he 
announced  ;  "  that's  where  most  of  'em  are.  .  .  . 
Yes,  'ere's  one  —  a  Jock  ;  lance-corporal,  by  his 
stripe.  Get  his  pay-book  out  of  his  pocket,  'Erb. 
Not  got  one  ?  Well,  he  ought  to  'ave,  that's  all ; 
it's  in  Regulations.  Look  at  his  identity-disc, 
then.  Read  it  out,  and  read  it  slow  ;  my  pencil's 
blunt.  Number  Seven-Six-Five-Fower-Eight — 
Private  J.  Couper — been  promoted  since  he  got 
that  —  Second  Royal  Covenanters — Presby- 
terian, Righto  !  Now,  this  one  —  No,  never 
mind  'im,  it's  only  a  'Un  ;  no  need  to  take  his 
number  !  Pass  along,  boys  !  Get  a  move  on  ; 
we've  got  a  lot  to  do." 

The  little  procession  moved  on,  performing 
its  grim  duties  with  characteristic  sang-froid, 


350  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

lightened  by  the  incurable,  untimely,  invaluable 
flippancy  of  the  British  soldier.  Presently  they 
came  to  a  place  where  a  bastion  of  sandbags  had 
been  improvised  as  an  emplacement  for  a  Lewis 
gun.  The  gun  itself  lay  twisted  and  earthy  on  a 
heap  of  burst  sandbags  ;  below  the  emplacement 
lay  the  gun's  crew. 

"One  shell  got  the  lot,  I  fancy,"  remarked 
Sergeant  Busby.  "  Switch  on  your  torch,  Alf  ; 
there  are  four  or  five  of  'em  here.  Lift  them  clear 
of  one  another,  boys." 

Four  bodies  were  lifted,  not  irreverently,  and 
laid  side  by  side  on  the  ground  behind  the  em- 
placement, with  sightless  eyes  upturned  to  the 
twinkling  stars.  One  remained  —  a  long-legged 
figure  in  shirt-sleeves,  lying  with  face  turned  to 
the  parapet. 

"  Help  me  to  turn  this  feller  over,  'Erb,"  com- 
manded the  sergeant.  "  Seems  to  have  lost  his 
toonic  ;  Government  property,  too  !  Well,  he 
can't  be  brought  up  for  it  now.  Hallo  !  .  .  . 
'Strewth!  .  .  .  Did  you  see  that,  'Erb?  It 
give  me  a  turn  for  a  minute.  'Alf  a  tick  ! "  He 
bent  down  hurriedly,  and  listened.  "  He's  breath- 
ing !  There's  a  stretcher-party  round  that 
traverse  ;  you,  Richards,  double  off  and  bring 
them,  quick  1 " 


IDENTITIES  351 

Five  minutes  later  the  insensible  form  of  the 
man  who  had  mislaid  Government  property  was 
borne  away,  and  Sergeant  Busby  proceeded  with 
the  identification  of  his  less  (or  more)  fortunate 
companions.  'Erb,  the  litterateur  of  the  party, 
read  off  the  identity-discs  one  by  one. 

' '  Smith  —  Turner — 3OpMns"  repeated  the 
sergeant,  labouring  with  the  blunt  pencil. 
"  That's  the  first  lot  of  Loyals  we've  struck. 
There  must  be  a  heap  more  somewhere  ;  we'll 
find  'em  presently.  What's  the  name  of  this  last 
one  ?  Give  us  his  number  first.  Six-O-Four-O- 
Two  ;  Private  T.  Birnie — spelt  with  two  I's  — 
right !  Royal  Loyals,  I  suppose  ?  Religion  ? 
Eh,  what's  the  trouble  now  ? " 

"  Sergeant,"  interposed  'Erb,  in  a  puzzled 
voice,  "  look  'ere  !  This  ain't  no  private  ;  it's 
an  orficer  !  Look  at  his  tunic — three  stars,  and 
all!" 

Sergeant  Busby  flashed  his  electric  torch  once 
more.  It  revealed  a  grey-haired  man,  with  a 
captain's  tunic  wrapped  round  his  shoulders,  tied 
by  the  sleeves. 

"Yes,"  he  announced  judicially,  "he's  an 
officer,  all  right ;  and  what's  more,  he's  an  officer 
in  a  Jock  regiment.  I  know  a  bit  about  uniforms, 
my  lad  ;  and  no  English  officer  wears  a  cutaway 


352  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

tunic  like  that,  or  his  pips  in  that  position.  And 
there's  his  collar-badges  !  He's  not  a  Loyal  at 
all,  this  feller  ;  he's  a  Covenanter." 

"  What  about  his  identity-disc  ? "  inquired 
'Erb,  respectfully.  "  That  says  '  Private.' " 

The  sapient  Busby  pondered.    Then  — 

"  He  was  a  private  once,"  he  explained,  "  in 
the  Loyals  ;  then  he  got  his  commission  and  was 
gazetted  to  the  Covenanters  ;  but  he  never  got 
himself  issued  with  a  new  identity  disc.  Econ- 
omical that's  what  he  was.  Real  Scotch,  I  expect  I 
Well,  if  he's  an  officer,  we  needn't  worry  with 
his  regimental  number  ;  that  goes  out."  The 
blunt  pencil  thudded.  "I'll  just  put  him  down 
as  Captain  Birnie,  Royal  Covenanters — Presby- 
terian ;  that's  enough.  Carry  on,  boys  ! " 

The  heavy-footed  procession  filed  away  through 
the  mud,  round  the  traverse,  and  out  of  this 
narrative. 

And  that  was  how  it  came  to  pass  that  Sir 
Thomas  Birnie,  Baronet,  of  Baronrigg,  who  in 
the  humility  of  his  heart  had  enlisted  as  a  private 
and  died  as  a  corporal,  was  buried  next  day,  with 
absolute  justice,  as  the  officer  and  gentleman 
that  he  really  was. 


IDENTITIES  353 

H 

MEANWHILE  Roy,  with  his  stout  young  skull 
almost  riven  by  a  glancing  Boche  nose-cap,  lay 
tossing  and  muttering  in  a  Base  Hospital. 

One  dream  beset  and  obsessed  him  for  weeks. 
He,  Roy  Birnie  —  the  soldierly,  the  punctilious, 
the  immaculate  —  had  been  haled  by  an  escort  of 
overwhelming  numbers  and  terrifying  appear- 
ance before  his  commanding  officer  —  Uncle 
Alan,  swollen  to  enormous  size  and  invested  with 
Mephistophelean  eyebrows  —  upon  the  charge  of 
coming  upon  parade  improperly  dressed.  It  was 
not  merely  a  question  of  an  unbuttoned  pocket, 
or  a  pair  of  badly-wound  puttees  ;  he  had 
paraded  in  his  shirt-sleeves  —  minus  his  tunic! 
And  in  his  dream,  try  as  he  might,  poor  Roy  could 
not  for  the  life  of  him  recall,  in  response  to  the 
nightmare  cross-examination  of  his  satanic  su- 
perior and  relative,  what  he  had  done  with  it. 

All  he  could  recollect  was  that  he  had  wrapped 
it  round  someone  —  someone  who  appeared  to 
have  lost  his  own  and  to  be  badly  in  need  of 
another  ;  because  he  was  lying  on  the  ground  in 
the  mud.  Roy  had  fitful  glimpses  of  the  face  — 
the  face  of  a  man  dying  in  great  pain,  but  in  great 
peace  —  a  strangely  familiar  face.  Roy  had  tried 


354  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

to  converse  with  its  owner  ;  but  in  his  dreams 
their  intercourse  was  limited  chiefly  to  intensely 
affectionate  smiles.  Then,  suddenly,  he  had 
recognised  the  face,  and  was  stooping,  in  an 
awkward,  boyish  fashion,  to  kiss  it,  when  some- 
thing happened,  and  he  remembered  no  more. 

in 

GRADUALLY  these  troubled  visions  faded,  and 
with  the  steady  healing  of  his  wound  came  healthy 
sleep  and  tranquillity  of  mind.  Finally  he  came 
to  himself  ;  and  one  bright  morning  in  May  was 
carried  on  board  a  hospital  ship  and  transferred, 
across  the  most  efficiently  guarded  strip  of  water 
in  the  world,  to  a  convalescent  hospital  in  a  great 
country  house  in  Kent. 

That  night  he  slept  in  a  little  room  in  a  long 
passage  full  of  doors,  behind  each  of  which  lay 
a  boy,  seldom  older  than  himself,  who  had 
squandered  his  youth,  mayhap  a  limb,  too  often 
his  whole  constitution,  in  the  service  of  his 
country. 

Next  morning,  when  he  awoke,  the  sun  was 
streaming  down  the  passage.  All  the  doors  stood 
wide  open,  and  the  air  was  rent  by  a  raucous  and 
irregular  chorus,  proceeding  from  the  doorways 
and  beginning : 


IDENTITIES  355 

Nurse,  Nurse,  I'm  feeling  rather  worte  ; 
Come  and  kiss  me  on  my  little  brow  ! 

Words  of  rebuke  were  audible,  and  the  riot 
died  down.  A  ma j  estic  young  woman,  admirably 
composed,  presented  herself  at  Roy's  door. 

"  Good  morning,  Captain  Birnie.  I  hope  you 
slept  well." 

"  Thank  you,  I  did,"  replied  Roy.  "Are  you 
the  Sister  ? " 

Across  the  passage  came  a  voice  : 

"  Let  me  present  you,  sir,  to  Little  Lily,  our 
Cross  Red  nurse  !  She  —  " 

The  lady  indicated  whirled  round  upon  the 
offender,  whose  grinning  face,  partially  obscured 
by  a  patch  over  one  eye,  could  be  discerned  upon 
the  pillow  of  the  bed  in  the  room  opposite. 

"Mr.  Abercrombie,"  she  announced,  "if  you 
can't  behave  I  shall  report  you  to  the  Matron." 

Mr.  Abercrombie  was  all  contrition  at  once. 

"All  right,  Nurse!"  he  announced.  "I 
apologise  !  I  only  want  to  warn  you,  sir,"  he 
added  to  Roy,  "that  she's  married!  But  she 
never  tells  us  that  until  it's  too  late  !  Do  be 
careful ! " 

Little  Lily,  the  Cross  Red  nurse  —  otherwise 
the  Lady  Hermione  Mulready  —  turned  an  un- 
ruffled countenance  to  Roy.  It  was  true  that  she 


356  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

was  married  ;  she  possessed  what  Mr.  Aber- 
crombie  would  have  called  "a  perfectly  good 
husband  of  her  own  "  in  the  Irish  Guards.  She 
had  once  possessed  two  brothers  also,  somewhat 
akin  in  appearance  and  disposition  to  the  effer- 
vescent Abercrombie.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she 
suffered  his  impertinences  so  readily. 

"  Here  is  your  breakfast,  Captain  Birnie,"  she 
continued.  "  The  Matron  says  you  can't  have 
bacon  yet ;  but  if  you  are  good  you  may  reach  an 
ordinary  diet  next  week." 

Roy  thanked  her. 

"After  breakfast,"  he  asked  politely,  "may 
I  write  a  letter — just  one  ?  And  see  a  paper  ? 
I'm  a  bit  behind  with  the  war,  and — " 

"  You  can  have  anything  you  want,  in  reason, 
so  long  as  you  lie  still  and  don't  fidget.  We  have 
enough  babies  in  this  place  already  ! "  announced 
Little  Lily,  with  a  withering  glance  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  room  opposite  where  Master  Aber- 
crombie was  acting  foolishly. 

" It's  all  right,"  Roy  assured  her.  "You  will 
have  no  trouble  with  me.  I'm  quite  an  old  man, 
really  :  a  kind  husband,  and  an  indulgent  father, 
and  all  that,"  he  added,  with  a  curious  little  air 
of  pomposity. 

His  nurse  looked  down  upon  him  with  quickened 
interest. 


IDENTITIES  357 

"Are  you  a  father  ? "  she  asked. 

"Yes.  Only  just,  though  !  I  —  I  —  haven't 
seen  It  yet ! "  His  voice  quivered  suddenly,  to 
think  how  near  he  had  gone  to  not  seeing  It  at  all. 

"I  am  glad  you  came  through,"  said  Little 
Lily  quietly  ;  and  handed  him  The  Times  to 
read  with  his  breakfast. 

Roy  poured  out  his  tea,  stretched  back  luxuri- 
ously, and  unfolded  the  paper.  Like  most  of  us 
in  those  days,  he  turned  first  to  the  casualty  list. 
The  names  of  the  officers  alone  filled  two  columns. 

"I  wonder  if  my  old  cracked  cranium  has 
figured  here  yet,"  he  ruminated.  "  What  a  nice 
little  thrill  if  it's  in  to-day  ! " 

He  glanced  down  the  long  list  of  wounded. 

"  No,  nothing  doing  !  It  has  probably  been  in 
already."  He  turned  in  more  leisurely  fashion 
to  the  previous  column,  and  began  to  read  the 
names  of  the  killed.  But  his  eye  got  no  further 
than  the  first  name.  There  were  no  A's  to-day  : 
this  began  with  B. 

He  laid  the  paper  down,  and  grinned  to  him- 
self. 

"I'd  rather  read  it  than  be  it ! "  he  reflected. 
Then,  suddenly,  a  blinding  thought  smote  him. 
Marjorie  !  What  if  she  had  seen  it  ?  He  sat  up 


358  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

excitedly,  as  a  further  probability  occurred  to 
him. 

"  She  must  have  been  notified  privately  by  the 
War  Office  long  ago.  Then,  of  all  times  ! "  He 
was  talking  to  himself  now,  in  a  low,  agitated 
voice.  "  My  God  !  I  wonder  where  she  is  !  The 
old  man  never  told  me  when  he  wired  ;  but  he'll 
know."  His  voice  rose.  "  Nurse  !  Nurse  ! 
Nurse!" 

"  Great  Scott ! "  announced  Mr.  Abercrombie 
from  the  opposite  room:  "  The  lad  has  succumbed 
already  !  And  I  warned  him  ! " 

But  already  Lady  Hermione's  tall  figure  was 
framed  in  Roy's  doorway. 

"  Here  I  am,"  she  said.  "  Don't  shout,  please. 
You  will  find  a  bell-push  under  your  pillow,  if 
you  look.  .  .  .  Why,  my  dear,  what  is  it  ? " 

Roy  handed  her  the  paper,  pointing  dumbly. 

"  My  wife  ! "  he  whispered.  "  She'll  think  I'm 
—  And  I  don't  even  know  where  she  is — to  con- 
tradict it !  Have  you  a  telephone  here  ?  Could 
you  ring  up  Lord  Eskerley's  house  in  London  ? 
He'll  know  1  He  knows  everything !  He 
knows — " 

Lady  Hermione  laid  a  cool  hand  upon  his 
bandaged  forehead. 

"Don't  get  flustered!"  she  said.    "Get  up, 


IDENTITIES  359 

and  put  on  your  dressing-gown.  I  will  show  you 
where  the  telephone  is." 

Next  moment,  with  Roy  swaying  on  her  arm, 
she  was  sailing  down  the  passage  in  the  direction 
of  the  office  in  the  front  hall. 

"  They're  keeping  company  already  !  Quick 
work  !  Quick  work  ! "  commented  Master  Aber- 
crombie,  admiringly. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  MILLS  OF  GOD 

"  HE  must  have  left  a  will  of  some  kind,"  said 
Lord  Eskerley. 

"  He  made  one  before  he  went  to  France,"  I 
replied  ;  "  but  that  has  been  invalidated  by  his 
marriage.  It  doesn't  really  matter  ;  because 
everything — the  baronetcy,  Baronrigg,  and  so 
on — will  pass  automatically  to  the  child." 

"  Still,  you  know  what  lawyers  are  when  a  man 
dies  intestate  !  There  will  be  nothing  left  worth 
scraping  up  if  we  don't  provide  something  of  a 
documentary  nature  for  them  to  bite  on.  Didn't 
they  find  anything  in  his  pockets,  when  they — 
found  him  ? " 

"  Nothing  but  his  cigarette-case,  and  Marjorie's 
last  letter." 

We  were  standing  in  the  outer  library  of  Lord 
Eskerley's  great  house  in  Curzon  Street.  It  was 
a  bright  morning  in  May,  and  the  sun,  streaming 
between  the  heavy  window-curtains,  made  the 
rest  of  the  room  look  more  than  usually  funereal 
by  comparison.  At  one  end,  double  doors  opened 
into  his  lordship's  sanctum  sanctorum,  where  few 


THE  MILLS  OF  GOD  361 

but  the  faithful  Meadows  ever  presumed  to  track 
him.  At  the  other  yawned  a  great  empty  fire- 
place, with  a  curiously  carved  mantelpiece,  over 
which  hung  Millais'  radiant  portrait  of  Lady 
Eskerley  as  a  bride. 

Beside  the  fire-place  stood  the  secretary's  own 
particular  writing-table.  To  the  wall  just  above 
it  was  fixed  an  incongruously  modern-looking 
telephone  switch-board.  Lord  Eskerley's  eye 
fell  on  this  ;  and  he  was  off  in  a  moment  down 
one  of  his  usual  by-paths. 

"  Private  wire,  and  so  on ! "  he  explained. 
"  Meadows  had  it  put  in.  He  just  pushes  a  few 
buttons,  and  puts  a  plug  in  a  hole  ;  and  I  can 
telephone  not  only  to  the  outside  world  but  direct 
to  the  office,  or  the  War  Cabinet,  or  to  my  own 
bathroom.  Wonderful  invention !  Wonderful 
fellow  !  It's  the  devil,  though,  when  he  goes  out 
for  a  walk  :  I'm  no  good  at  it  myself.  I  tried 
to  ring  up  the  P.M.  the  other  day,  and  found 
myself  breathing  private  and  confidential  war 
secrets  to  my  own  laundry-maid.  By  the  way, 
have  you  looked  through  those  things  yet  ?  You 
may  find  what  you  want  there." 

He  pointed  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  where  a 
mud-stained,  sun-bleached  Wolseley  valise  of 
green  Willesden  canvas  lay  rolled  and  strapped. 


362  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

It  had  once  been  Roy's,  and  had  arrived  the 
previous  day,  forwarded  to  me  as  next-of-kin, 
bearing  that  pitiful  designation :  "Deceased 
Officers  Effects" 

"I  will  go  through  it  this  morning,"  I  said, 
"  and  report.  Eric  is  coming  along  ;  he'll  help 
me.  By  the  way,  how  is  Marjorie  to-day  ?  Eric 
is  sure  to  want  to  know." 

"Why  should  he  want  to  know — eh  ?  Why 
this  solicitude  ? " 

"I  don't  know.  He  always  does.  Why 
shouldn't  he  take  an  interest  in  her,  like  the  rest 
of  us?" 

But  plainly  my  old  friend  was  not  quite  satisfied. 

"To  take  an  interest  in  a  beautiful  young 
widow  is  right  and  proper,"  he  said  —  "  especially 
if  you  happen  to  be  an  eligible  D.S.O.  But  not 
too  premature  an  interest,  please  !  Bethune  is  a 
gallant  soldier  ;  but  fine  feeling  never  was  his 
forte"  Suddenly  the  old  man  blazed  up.  "Good 
God  I  Has  he  realised  that  the  poor  child  doesn't 
even  know  she  is  a  widow  ? " 

That  Eric  should  be  taking,  or  ever  have  taken, 
a  more  than  fatherly  interest  in  Marjorie  was 
news  to  me.  I  am  not  very  perceptive  in  these 
matters  ;  but  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing 
explained  a  good  deal  to  me  —  Eric's  persistent 


THE  MILLS  OF  GOD  363 

dislike  of  Roy,  for  instance.  Still,  I  had  no 
desire  to  pursue  the  topic  ;  and  switched  accord- 
ingly. 

"  I  am  afraid  she  will  have  to  be  told  now,"  I 
said.  "  It's  in  the  paper  this  morning.  People 
will  be  writing  to  condole,  and  so  on." 

"  I  know,"  said  Lord  Eskerley.  "  I  shall  tell 
her  myself — this  afternoon."  He  shook  his 
white  head  sorrowfully.  "  It  will  be  pretty 
awful,  though  :  a  woman  ought  to  do  it  really." 
He  glanced  up  at  the  portrait  of  his  long  dead 
wife.  "  We  will  give  her  one  more  morning,  poor 
little  soul !  Hark  ! " 

The  door  into  the  hall  stood  open  ;  so,  appar- 
ently, did  the  door  of  Mar  jorie's  room,  on  the  first 
floor  above  us.  As  we  stood,  we  could  hear  her 
voice  uplifted  in  a  somewhat  exaggerated  apos- 
trophe to  her  own  son  ;  also  that  self-satisfied 
infant's  gurgling  reception  of  the  same.  Mother 
and  son,  by  the  way,  had  been  in  the  house  for 
more  than  three  weeks,  having  been  conveyed 
thither  from  a  nursing  home  in  Kensington, 
where,  thanks  to  the  timely  warning  of  a  flam- 
boyant but  attractive  young  person  named  Liss 
Lyle,  we  had  been  constrained  to  look  for  them. 
Miss  Lyle  was  now  our  constant  visitor,  and  had 
completely  enmeshed  the  hitherto  impregnable 
Meadows. 


364  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"  Extraordinary  gibberish,  baby  talk  ! "  re- 
marked Lord  Eskerley.  "Primeval,  of  course, 
and  quite  unaltered  through  the  ages."  Then, 
suddenly  : 

"  Poor  child,  she's  had  a  hard  time  !  Three 
years  of  exhausting  self-imposed  drudgery — then 
maternity  I  And  now  she  has  to  be  told  that 
she's  a  widow.  My  God,  Alan,  how  I  hate 
Wilhelm  sometimes  !  And  he  once  dined  in  this 
house  I " 

"  What  is  the  news,  by  the  way  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Good,  decidedly  good  !  I  think  we  have  the 
Boche  cold  at  last.  Internally  Germany  is  on 
her  last  legs.  Only  one  thing  could  have  braced 
her  up  —  a  spectacular  success  last  March.  As 
things  turned  out,  that  enterprise  went  off  at 
half-cock  —  though  it  gave  us  a  most  salutary 
scare.  Now  our  morale  is  returning  :  Foch  has 
the  situation  well  in  hand.  I  fancy  he  will 
encourage  the  enemy  to  attack  a  little  longer  : 
then,  when  he  has  blown  a  few  more  swollen 
salients  in  our  line,  come  right  back  at  him  and 
puncture  them  one  by  one.  That  and  the  arrival 
of  the  Americans  —  they  are  splendid  troops,  I 
hear,  and  are  being  rushed  over  at  the  rate  of 
three  hundred  thousand  a  month  now — should 
put  the  last  nail  into  the  Teutonic  coffin."  The 


THE  MILLS  OF  GOD  365 

old  man  paused,  and  sighed.  "  Not  before  it  was 
time,  though  I  Our  casualties  passed  the  three 
million  mark  the  other  day,  Alan  I  Still,  our 
tribulations  of  the  past  three  months  may  have 
been  worth  while.  They  have  taught  us  two 
things  :  firstly,  that  this  blundering,  flat-footed 
old  country  of  ours  retains  its  ancient  staying- 
power  ;  secondly,  never  to  be  too  cocksure  about 
winning  until  you  have  won !  What  time  is  he 
coming  ? " 

"Eleven  o'clock,"  I  replied,  concluding  that 
this  lightning  reference  was  to  Eric. 

"  Umph  !  I  have  to  be  at  Downing  Street  at 
twelve.  Meanwhile,  I  shall  be  in  my  own  inner 
chamber  if  you  want  me.  Good-bye  1  There  are 
cigarettes  in  that  box.  Poor  little  girl ! " 

The  double  doors  closed,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

I  unstrapped  Roy's  valise  without  much  diffi- 
culty— my  comminuted  collar-bone  was  mending 
nicely,  though  I  had  been  warned  that  I  might 
never  be  able  to  wield  a  salmon-rod  again — and 
emptied  out  its  jumbled  contents  on  to  the  floor. 
At  the  same  moment  Eric  was  announced. 

"  Come  along,"  I  said,  "  and  get  that  new  tin 
arm  of  yours  to  work.  Sort  out  everything  in  the 
shape  of  papers  from  that  mess,  and  let  us  go 
through  them." 


366  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"Are  we  looking  for  anything  in  particular  ? " 
asked  Eric,  reluctantly  setting  to  work.  He 
always  hated  drudgery. 

"Roy 'swill." 

Eric  nodded  ;  and  laid  a  heap  of  documents 
on  the  table.  There  was  a  tattered  sheaf  of 
battalion  orders  ;  an  old  field  dispatch  book,  a 
number  of  maps  ;  and  a  bundle  of  letters. 

"  I  fancy  the  letters  are  from  Marjorie,"  I  said. 
"  We  need  not  bother  to  read  them." 

"  How  is  she,  by  the  way  ? "  asked  Eric,  looking 
up. 

"  Getting  along,  I  believe." 

"  One  would  like  to  show  her  any  little  kindness 
that  is  possible,"  Eric  continued.  "  One  has  sent 
her  flowers,  of  course,  and  so  on.  Is  there  any- 
thing else  ?  I  wonder  if  she  would  like  to  see 
me  ?  It  would  probably  do  her  good." 

It  was  the  old  touch.    I  smiled  despite  myself. 

"I  wouldn't  suggest  it  at  present,  if  I  were 
you,"  I  said.  "  She  is  to  have  some  news  broken 
to  her  this  afternoon." 

"  You  mean—  ?" 

I  nodded. 

"  It's  in  the  paper  this  morning,"  I  said.  "  The 
War  Office  telegram  we  could  keep  from  her ; 
but  not  that." 


THE  MILLS  OF  GOD  367 

Eric  was  silent,  and  began  to  turn  over  the 
papers. 

"  These  maps  had  better  go  back  to  Ordnance," 
he  remarked.  "  They  ought  to  have  been  taken 
out  at  Battalion  Headquarters,  by  rights.  Some 
of  these  old  Orders  are  interesting  :  they  have  a 
musty  flavour  now.  Listen  to  this  "  : 

The  C.O.  has  observed  that  N.C.O.'s  and  Men  are 
falling  into  the  habit  of  washing  their  gas-helmets. 

"  Do  you  remember  those  noisome  old  flannel 
jelly-bags,  Alan  ? " 

"I  do  !  They  were  abolished,  as  far  as  I  can 
remember,  about  the  middle  of  nineteen  sixteen." 

"  Yes,  that's  right.  They  were  about  as  much 
use  as  the  sick  headache  which  they  produced." 

Officers  Commanding  Companies  will  see  that  this 
practice  is  discontinued  at  once.  Helmets  so  washed 
are  entirely  useless  against  a  gas  attack. 

"  Still,"  I  commented,  "  if  you  wore  them 
unwashed  you  died  whether  there  was  a  gas 
attack  on  or  not ;  so  altogether,  I  don't  blame 
the  washers  ! " 

"  Hallo,"  continued  Eric  ;  "  here's  a  billet- 
doux  from  Corps  Headquarters." 

"What  is  it?" 

Eric  grinned. 


368  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

"Mules,  Brief  Notes  on  the  Treatment  of. 
They  do  manage  to  think  of  things  on  Olym- 
pus!.  .  ." 

The  mule  is  much  more  dainty  about  what  he  drinks 
than  about  what  he  eats. 

"  I  think  that's  true  :  my  last  consignment  ate 
seventeen  nose-bags  and  three  pack-saddles  in  a 
single  night." 

The  mule  is  not  really  of  a  vicious  disposition  ;  he  is 
only  shy  and  nervous,  and  is  very  responsive  to  pet- 
ting— 

"  So  am  I,  for  that  matter  I  But  let's  get  on, 
Eric.  Here's  a  field  despatch  book.  It  has  been 
lying  in  a  puddle,  I  fancy  :  these  carbon  dupli- 
cates have  run  a  bit.  Never  mind  1  I  don't 
suppose  there  is  anything  of  importance  inside 
it." 

"The  only  legible  despatch  is  the  last  one," 
said  Eric,  turning  over  the  pages.  "A  pretty 
stately  epistle,  too  !  Listen  1 " 

To  O.C.  7th  Battalion,  the  Grampian  Regiment. 

Sir,  —  Reference  your  FZ/357,  in  which  it  is  stated 
that  the  one  hundred  picks  and  shovels  which  this  Bat- 
talion wag  directed  to  hand  over  to  yours  on  the  16th 
intt.  were  handed  over  deficient  five  picks  and  four 
shovel*  ;  I  am  to  inform  you  that  an  N.C.O.  was  duly 


THE  MILLS  OF  GOD  369 

sent  in  charge  of  the  picks  and  slwvels  in  a  G.S. 
Waggon  to  Bluepoint  Farm  at  seven  a.m.  on  that  date, 
and  there  handed  over  the  full  number  of  picks  and 
shovels  to  an  N.C.O.  of  your  Battalion,  who  counted 
them  and  gave  a  receipt  for  same,  a  copy  of  which  I  now 
enclose. 

Your  obedient  servant, 
R.  T.  C.  Birnie,  Lieut., 

For  Lt.-Col.  Commanding 

2nd  Battalion,  Royal  Covenanters. 

"That  fairly  puts  it  across  the  Grampian 
Regiment ! "  was  Eric's  verdict.  "  I  congratulate 
you!" 

"  It  was  Roy  who  was  responsible,"  I  said. 
"  He  got  me  out  of  a  nasty  mess  with  the  C.R.E. 
by  producing  that  receipt.  He  was  a  grand 
adjutant,  bless  him  I " 

Eric  continued  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the 
despatch  book. 

"There  is  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  will  or 
testament  here,"  he  said  at  last.  "  No  ;  wait  a 
minute  ;  there's  something  in  the  pocket  of  the 
flap." 

He  held  the  pocket  open,  and  shook  out  its 
contents  on  to  the  table  cloth  —  two  faded  slips 
of  pinkish  paper. 

"  These  don't  look  very  promising,"  he  said. 
"  Field  telegraph  despatches  ! " 


370  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

• 

He  unfolded  the  first  slip,  smoothed  it  out,  and 
read  aloud : 

The  expression  "Dud"  mil  no  longer  be  employed  in 
Official  Correspondence. 

He  laughed.  "  There's  Staff  work  for  you  ! " 
"Eric — !"  I  began  suddenly.  Some  inward 
monitor  had  jerked  an  alarm-cord  in  my  brain. 
Where  had  I  heard  that  message  before  ?  And 
in  conjunction  with  what  ?  I  leaned  across  the 
table  and  stretched  out  my  hand  ;  but  already 
Eric  had  unfolded  the  second  despatch,  and  was 
smoothing  it  out  with  the  wrist  of  his  artificial 
arm.  I  noticed  that  a  covering  slip  was  pinned 
to  the  despatch. 

Passed  to  you,  read  Eric  —  for  immediate  compli- 
ance, please.  —  J.  E.  F. 

"That  was  old  Forrester,  the  Brigade  Major. 
It  sounds  quite  urgent ;  I  wonder  what  it  is  all 
about." 

"Eric—  !"  I  said  again.  Then,  suddenly,  I 
held  my  peace.  Who  was  I,  to  interfere  with 
God? 

"  Hallo,"  continued  Eric — "  here's  my  name  ! " 

Lieutenant-Colonel  E.  F.  B.  Bethune,  D.S.O.,  Com- 
manding Second  Battalion  Royal  Covenanters  — 


THE  MILLS  OF  GOD  371 

He  stopped  suddenly  —  as  I  knew  he  would.  I 
looked  up,  and  watched  his  face  go  white,  as  he 
read  the  message  to  the  end.  I  saw  him  re-read 
it,  again  and  again.  Then  he  examined  the  date, 
and  hour  of  despatch.  Then  came  a  long,  deathly 
silence. 

At  last  he  lifted  his  face  to  me  —  the  face  of  a 
man  suddenly  aged.  He  pushed  the  pink  slip 
in  my  direction. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  that  before  ? "  he  asked, 
in  a  hoarse  voice. 

I  read  the  message  mechanically  through, 
though  I  knew  it  by  heart.  It  said  : 

Lt.-Col.  E.  F.  B.  Bethune,  D.S.O.,  Commanding 
Second  Battalion,  Royal  Covenanters,  mil  return  home 
forthzvith,  and  report  to  War  Office. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  SOUL  OF  EEIC  BETHUNE 

How  long  we  sat  there  I  do  not  know.  But  at 
last  I  was  conscious  that  Eric  was  speaking  again. 

"When  did  Roy  Birnie  get  this  ?" 

"  Immediately  after  you  had  moved  off  with 
the  battalion — that  afternoon  at  Caterpillar 
Farm,  before  the  Somme  show.  He  and  I  stayed 
to  clear  up,  you  remember  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes  1 "  he  muttered,  staring  at  the  paper. 
"I  remember.  But  —  but  why  didn't  he  give  it 
to  me  ?  Didn't  he  realise  what  it  meant  ? " 

"  Yes,  he  realised  all  right.  That  was  why  he 
didn't  give  it  to  you." 

Eric  took  up  the  despatch  in  his  shaking  hand. 

"Roy  Birnie  deliberately  held  that  back  ? "  he 
said. 

I  nodded. 

"And  you  ?  " 

"Don't  ask  me  about  it,"  I  replied,  lighting 
my  pipe  and  feeling  thoroughly  uncomfortable. 
"  It's  no  part  of  a  second-in-command's  duty  to 
supervise  the  adjutant's  correspondence." 

"  But— didn't  he  show  it  to  you  ? " 


THE  SOUL  OF  ERIC  BETHUNE    373 

"  Now  you  ask  me,  he  did." 

"But — but  —  it  would  have  put  you  in  com- 
mand of  the  battalion  ! " 

"My  dear  sir,"  I  explained  gruffly,  "a  man 
can't  take  command  of  a  battalion  if  the  adjutant 
neglects  to  publish  the  order  which  appoints  him." 
I  felt  horribly  mean,  but  this  seemed  to  me  to  be  a 
case  where  the  dead  could  most  conveniently  bear 
the  responsibility. 

Suddenly  Eric  rose  to  his  feet.  I  glanced  at 
him,  and  flinched,  for  I  knew  what  was  coming. 
The  colour  had  come  back  to  his  face,  and  his  blue 
eyes  were  aglow.  He  was  "up  in  the  cloods." 
He  came  round  to  my  side  of  the  table,  and  laid 
his  hands  on  my  shoulders.  It  was  strange  to  feel 
the  lifeless  weight  of  his  artificial  arm.  I  flinched 
again,  and  made  a  testy  reference  to  my  com- 
minuted collar-bone. 

But  Eric  was  not  to  be  denied.  He  had  been 
exposed  to  himself  as  an  incompetent  and  a 
failure  ;  but  what  mattered  more  —  solely — to 
him  was  that  the  world  did  not  know  about  it ; 
Roy  and  I  had  saved  him  from  that.  All  that 
was  grateful  in  his  nature  had  been  roused  by 
that  infernal  telegram.  He  sat  down  beside  me 
and  took  my  hand  in  his.  I  felt  very  ridiculous. 

"  My  God,  old  man,"  he  said,  "  you  saved  me  1 


374  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

You  two  saved  me  from  being  broke  !  You,  who 
might  have  commanded  the  battalion — and 
young  Roy  !  Young  Roy  !  After  what  I  had 
done  to  him — and  —  tried  to  do  to  him  !" 

"  Oh,  come  !"  I  said.  "  You  were  a  bit  of  a 
martinet,  sometimes  —  the  heavy  C.O.,  and  all 
that — but  there's  no  need  to  reproach  yourself 
over  Roy." 

Eric  let  go  my  hand — greatly  to  my  relief  — 
and  began  to  walk  about  the  room.  Suddenly  he 
turned  to  me. 

"Alan,  old  man,"  he  said,  "do  you  know 
exactly  what  I  did  to  Roy  ?  I  tried  to  take  his 
girl  away  from  him  ! " 

I  looked  up.  Lord  Eskerley  had  been  right, 
as  usual. 

"  You  mean  —  Marjorie  ? " 

"  Yes  —  Mar  j  orie  !  Not  once  —  nor  twice  — 
not  accidentally  —  nor  casually;  but  deliberately 
and  continuously  !  Listen  ! "  He  was  in  the 
flood-tide  of  confession  now,  and  I  knew  that  in 
that  mood  he  was  not  apt  to  be  reticent. 

"  I  made  love  to  her  at  Craigfoot — in  a  'you're- 
a-nice-little-girl '  sort  of  way  —  while  Roy  was 
at  Sandhurst.  I  made  love  to  her  in  London, 
when  I  was  on  leave  and  he  was  in  France  —  took 
her  out  to  dinner  and  lunch,  and  so  on — " 


THE  SOUL  OF  ERIC  BETHUNE    375 

"  Why  not  ?    It  was  up  to  her  to  refuse." 

"  She  didn't  refuse." 

"  In  that  case,  she  must  have  found  your  society 
agreeable." 

"  No,  she  didn't !  I  am  pretty  vain  about 
myself,  Alan  ;  but  I  could  see  she  didn't ! " 

"  Then  why  did  she  accept  your  invitations  ? " 

"  I  fancy  it  was  because  it  gave  her  a  chance 
to  talk  about  the  regiment  —  which  meant  Roy. 
Not  that  she  ever  mentioned  him  ;  but  —  I  see 
it  now  !  My  God,  what  a  cad  I  was  !  I  let  her 
sit  there,  while  I  crabbed  him — talked  patron- 
isingly  of  him — belittled  the  good  work  he  had 
always  done  for  me  and  my  battalion.  Ugh  ! " 

"  Did  you  really  care  for  her  ? " 

"  I  was  fascinated  by  her  for  the  time.  She 
is  a  glorious  creature  ! " 

"  She  certainly  is." 

"Rut  I  think  that  in  the  main  it  was  jealousy 
— -jealousy  of  Roy's  youth,  and  the  fact  that 
instead  of  being  my  son,  as  he  might  have  been, 
he  was  my  rival.  It  was  a  mad  business  alto- 
gether. Finally,  I  asked  her  to  marry  me." 

"  She  turned  you  down  ? "  It  was  an  unneces- 
sary remark. 

"  Of  course  she  turned  me  down  !  Rut  she  did 
it  very  sweetly.  She  was  rather  apologetic  about 


376  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

it ;  said  she  was  engaged  already,  and  perhaps 
she  ought  to  have  made  that  fact  a  little  clearer  to 
me  from  the  start ;  only  she  never  suspected, 
and  so  on." 

"  She  didn't  mention  Roy's  name,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  No  I  I  half  thought  that  she  would,  just  to 
score  me  off.  It  would  have  been  a  real  slap  in 
the  face  for  me,  his  Colonel,  if  she  had.  But  she 
didn't :  she  just  said  she  was  very,  very  sorry, 
but  that  she  was  engaged  to  some  one  else  ! " 

"  Well,  there  was  no  great  harm  done,"  I  said, 
wishing  he  would  stop.  But  he  had  not  finished 
yet. 

"And  then  —  oh  Lord,  Alan  ! — do  you  know 
what  I  did  then  ?  I  turned  round  on  her,  like  a 
spoiled  child,  and  accused  her  of  having  flirted 
with  me,  and  led  me  on  1  And,  not  content  with 
that,  I  turned  on  the  pathetic  tap.  I  said  some- 
thing rotten  about  expecting  a  little  more 
consideration  from  her,  seeing  that  I  was  going 
back  to  the  trenches  to-morrow — and  muck  like 
that !  And  she  just  looked  at  me,  and  said,  quite 
quietly:  'He  is  there,  too  —  nowl'  As  if  I 
didn't  know  !  Oh,  what  a  miserable  rotter  I  was 
—  and  am!" 

He  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  arms.  He  was  "doon  in  the  midden" 


THE  SOUL  OF  ERIC  BETHUNE    377 

now.  I  puffed  wretchedly  at  my  pipe  and  longed, 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  for  an  air  raid. 
I  found  myself  wondering  whether  Marjorie  had 
ever  told  Roy  of  this  incident.  I  decided  that 
my  Eve  would  not  have  done  so  ;  and  therefore 
probably  not  Marjorie. 

Presently  Eric  began  to  talk  again,  with  his 
forehead  still  close  to  the  table. 

"And  this  very  morning,"  he  said  bitterly  — 
"with  Roy's  death  hardly  made  public  —  I  came 
to  this  house  fooling  round  Roy's  widow  with 
flowers,  and  silly  old  man's  messages  I  I  believe 
I  was  actually  jealous  of  the  dead,  Alan  !  Well, 
that's  over  now.  I  needn't  insult  her  any  more 

—  or  him  ! "    He  sat  up  again,  and  took  the  pink 
slip.    "This  has  killed  my  conceit  at  last  —  and 
perhaps  saved  my  soul.     Thank  God  I  came 
across  it  1    It  has  brought  me  to  myself.    And 
thank  you,  old  friend"  —  Eric  turned  swiftly  to 
me,  and  his  face  broke  into  the  smile  that  I  loved 

—  "for  what  you  did  for  me !    You  saved  me 
from  being  sent  home  !    Yes,  and  you  provided 
me  with  a  far  more  creditable  exit  from  my 
soldiering  career  than  I  ever  deserved  ! " 

"That's  all  right,"  I  said.  "Let's  clear  up 
these  papers." 

But  Eric  was  not  listening.     He  had  fallen 


378  THE  WILLING  HORSE 

into  a  rare  mood  —  gentle  and  frank.    He  talked 
on — more  calmly  now. 

"Men  are  queer  mixtures.  And,  oh  Lord, 
how  truly  some  women  judge  us  !  Marjorie  saw 
through  me  from  the  start,  I  believe.  So  did 
Diana.  Did  you  ever  know  why  she  broke  off 
our  engagement  ? " 

I  shook  my  head.  I  had  not  heard  Eric  men- 
tion Diana's  name  for  twenty  years. 

"  Eve  and  I  never  spoke  of  it,"  I  said. 

"No,  of  course;  you  two  wouldn't  —  being 
you  two.  Well,  Diana  said  to  me,  quite  suddenly, 
one  day  :  '  Eric,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  can't 
marry  you  after  all.'  Just  that !  Of  course,  I 
asked  her  why." 

"  That  was  probably  a  mistake." 

"  It  was.  She  asked  me  not  to  press  her  ;  but, 
being  me,  that  only  made  me  more  unreasonable. 
So  finally  she  told  me. 

' '  Eric,'  she  said,  '  I  am  very  fond  of  you  ;  I 
always  shall  be — more  than  I  care  to  think  about. 
But  you  have  one  fault  that  I  can't  get  over  : 
you  have  a  mean  streak  in  you.  I  would  take 
you  with  every  other  fault  in  the  world  —  but 
not  that  I  So  —  good-bye  ! '  They  were  the  last 
words  she  ever  spoke  to  me.  You  know,  she  was 
like  that.  I  took  my  medicine  with  a  smiling 


THE  SOUL  OF  ERIC  BETHUNE    379 

face,  as  you  may  remember  ;  but  it  hurt  like 
hell — and  it  taught  me  nothing!  Well" — he 
tapped  the  telegraph  form — "here  is  my  second 
dose  !  It  has  got  home  this  time.  I  have  a  mean 
streak  in  me,  and  I  know  it  at  last !  Still"  — 
he  rose  to  his  feet  and  held  up  his  right  hand  : 
he  could  never  resist  the  dramatic  touch — "it's 
not  too  late.  I  am  still  on  the  right  side  of  fifty  ; 
and  I  am  going  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life 
eradicating  that  yellow  streak  from  my  system. 
I  think  I  can  do  it.  A  thing's  never  dangerous 
once  you  know  it's  there."  Suddenly  he  leaned 
over  towards  me.  "Alan,  old  boy,  I'm  not  a 
hopeless  outsider,  am  I  ?  Tell  me  !  You  know 
me  !  What  am  I  ? " 

"You  are  what  I  have  always  thought  you," 
I  said — "a  very  brave  soldier,  with  a  weakness 
for  facing  difficult  situations  with  both  eyes  shut ! 
Also,  you  are  my  oldest  friend.  Now,  for  good- 
ness sake,  let's  clear  up  this  mess,  and  report 
entire  lack  of  progress  to  Eskerley  ! " 

The  telephone  bell  rang  sharply. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THROUGH 

THE  double  doors  at  the  end  of  the  room  swung 
back,  and  Lord  Eskerley  appeared.  The  bell 
was  still  ringing.  A  tiny  hinged  metal  flap  on 
the  switchboard  had  fallen  open,  revealing  a 
white  disc  with  a  number  on  it.  His  Lordship 
gazed  absently  down  upon  the  apparatus. 

"  The  inestimable  Meadows  is  still  taking  the 
air,"  he  said,  "  so  I  must  tackle  this  contraption 
myself.  Let  me  think  ;  what  is  the  combina- 
tion?" 

He  peered  at  the  vibrating  flap  and  the  revealed 
number. 

"  Three  1 "  he  announced.  "Aha  1  I  haven't 
the  faintest  notion  what  that  implies.  Let  us 
stop  this  noise,  anyhow." 

He  pushed  up  the  flap  again,  and  the  bell 
stopped  ringing. 

"  Shall  we  retire  ? "  I  asked. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  If  it's  desperately  confidential 
I  will  switch  it  through  to  the  instrument  in  my 
room  ;  but  I  don't  expect "  —  he  put  the  receiver 
to  his  ear  —  "Who  wants  me?  What  wants 


THROUGH  381 

me  ?  .  .  .  Caperton  ?  Never  heard  of  him  1 
Oh,  an  exchange  ?  A  locality  ?  A  trunk  call  ? 
Very  well !  Rien  ne  m'etonne  I  Carry  on  ! " 

Lord  Eskerley's  back  was  turned  to  us. 
Suddenly  I  saw  his  shoulders  stiffen  ;  he  caught 
his  breath  sharply.  As  this  was  the  first  sign 
of  emotion  that  he  had  betrayed,  to  my  knowledge, 
for  the  last  thirty  years,  I  watched  him  with 
quickening  interest. 

"Yes!"  he  said  .  .  .  "Yes,  yes!  This  is 
Lord  Eskerley  .  .  .  Louder,  please  1 "  Then 
came  a  pause,  while  the  receiver  squeaked  steadily. 
Then,  a  little  unexpectedly  :  "  Praise  God  from 
Whom  all  blessings  flow  ! " 

Eric  was  watching  too,  now.  The  old  man 
steadied  himself,  grasping  the  end  of  the  mantel- 
piece with  his  disengaged  hand.  Then  he  looked 
round  over  his  shoulder  at  us,  peering  over  his 
spectacles. 

"A  most  interesting  communication  coming 
through  here  ! "  he  announced.  "  Forgive  my 
demeanour  ! "  His  voice  was  as  harsh  as  ever, 
but  there  were  tears  in  his  old  eyes.  He  turned 
to  the  instrument  again. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  concur.  Such  a  rumour 
would  be  most  prejudicial  to  your  future  career. 


382          THE  WILLING  HORSE 

Shall  we  contradict  it  ?  You  are  quite  sure  it's 
incorrect  ? "  .  .  .  He  chuckled ;  so  did  the 
receiver.  Then  he  continued  : 

"Eh?  ...  Oh!  Naturally!  You  would 
like  to  do  that  at  once  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  think  I  can 
put  you  in  communication  with  the  party  in 
question.  .  .  .  When?  Oh,  within  a  fairly 
reasonable  interval  of  time,  I  hope.  Let  us  say 
next  week  — "  He  moved  the  receiver  a  few 
inches  away  from  his  ear.  "  I  can  hear  you  quite 
easily  in  your  ordinary  voice,  thanks  ! " 

He  chuckled  again,  laid  down  the  receiver,  and 
brooded  once  more  over  the  switchboard.  Then, 
after  a  brief  mental  calculation,  he  selected  a  plug 
at  the  end  of  a  wire,  thrust  it  into  a  hole,  and 
pressed  a  small  ivory  button. 

A  bell  rang  faintly  upstairs,  then  ceased  sharply. 
Our  noble  operator  took  up  the  receiver  again. 

"  That  you,  Habakkuk  ? "  he  inquired.   . 
"  Good  !     Some  mysterious  individual  in  Kent 
wishes  to  speak  to  you  on  the  telephone.  Wonder- 
ful invention  ! " 

The  old  gentleman  made  a  final  adjustment  of 
the  switches  on  the  board,  and  spoke  for  the  last 
time  —  apparently  to  the  person  in  Kent : 

"  You  still  there?" 


THROUGH  383 

The  telephone  vibrated  stormily. 
"All  right!     You  are  through  to  her  —  dear 
boy!" 

He  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  left  them  together. 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U.S.  A 


from  whteh  It  was  borrowed. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIL 


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